“People aren’t typically afraid of birds in most contexts,” Isaiah said. “But birds are descended from the dinosaurs. They might not seem dangerous, but sometimes the things that don’t seem dangerous are the most dangerous of all.”
“So profound,” Gabe said, taking Isaiah’s own words and earning a grudging nod of approval. Then, of course, he ruined it. “It reminds me of what you said at the gala about murder being the truest art of all. The murderer as artist. It seems that, in order for everyone to truly understand the work, people would need to know what the artist did. If nobody knew he did it, what would be the point of that?”
Isaiah’s cheeks went ashy, his lips pursed. But then he rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that you think I killed Conrad Phlume? Is that why you’re really here tonight? To do your little interrogation act?”
Maybe Gabe could’ve been alittlemore subtle. But no point assigning blame. We couldn’t go backward in time, and also I kind of didn’t think I could listen to another pretentious explanation of human nature without throwing myself onto the knife-bird. I tossed my hair. “You have to admit, it’s a tad suspicious that you tell us how much you want to murder someone for your art, and right afterward someone winds up murdered by your art.”
My phone buzzed. I snuck a quick glance at it. It wasCoriander with a question in my group chat with her and Millicent.I saw online that you’re in Bushwick tonight at some art thing?? You didn’t invite us?
Ignore. I slipped my phone back into my bag in time for Isaiah’s answer.
“Right,” Isaiah drawled, taking another sip of his wine. His hand was shaking the tiniest bit, I noticed. Could this really be it? We’d nailed the murderer with our very first interrogation?
We’d probably win some kind of award for this. Maybe the mayor would give us the key to the city or something. I could go anywhere with that. I’d always kind of wanted to see what lay beyond the grand oak doors of the private male-only club my dad and Nicholas belonged to. To learn if the rumors were true about the sauna.
Focus, Pom.I tossed my hair again, this time because the heat of the room was making it stick to my skin and I didn’t want the celebratory photo of the night that would feed out to all the papers with news of our success to be plagued by misbehaving hair.
Isaiah continued—this was it! “Because that would be the smart thing to do. To tell people how murder is great art, and then immediately murder someone. I went to Harvard, you know.”
I knew plenty of stupid people who’d gone to Harvard. It was easy, really—your parents just had to buy them a building or a sports field or something. But I got his point.
“You’re here two days after the murder,” he said. “Which means I’m probably the first person you’re talking to. Is that right?”
I shrugged. Didn’t want to give away all our secrets, but also didn’t want to lie.
“Right,” he said, taking another sip of his terrible wine, his hand still shaky. He’d been drinking a lot of wine, actually; we’d been noting it to see when he’d get tipsy. But I knew a lot of artists. I’d been to a lot of shows. They didn’t usually drink this much during the event—they had to stay focused on schmoozingwith buyers and networking with other artists and, if they were lucky, talking to the press. “Maybe I did do it. That’s me, the ultimate artist.”
Oh. I sighed, deflating as I did. My hair fluttered down to stick to the back of my neck, and I didn’t bother trying to toss it this time. “No, you didn’t. Are you okay?”
He took another long sip of his wine. No, not just a sip—he downed the entire rest of the cup. “Of course I’m fine. I am the ultimate artist.”
“No, you’re not,” I said wearily. “You didn’t do it.”
He looked affronted by this, like,How dare somebody accuse me ofnotmurdering someone?“You don’t know that. Maybe I did.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t bet my entire fortune that you didn’t do it, but I’m pretty sure,” I said. Because I knew that drinking. I’d done that drinking. That was the kind of drinking you did when you were trying to forget. The artist was kind of a prick, but I softened toward him anyway, because plenty of people would say the same thing about me. “Have you talked to anyone yet? I saw someone after I found my grandmother’s body who helped me a lot.”
“I have three therapists,” he said, still affronted, but then he lowered his voice and leaned in. “Do you still have nightmares?”
Gabe’s hand found my lower back, rubbed gently in support. “Sometimes,” I said, wanting to be honest. “But seriously, it really helps to talk to someone. Or three someones, if that’s what you prefer.”
He swallowed hard. “Thanks.” He pulled back. “Or that’s what I would say, if I was in need of your advice.”
“Sure,” I said. So Isaiah was a dead end. I probably shouldn’t be surprised—it would’ve been awfully lucky of us to find the murderer our first time out. “But, like, out of curiosity, where were you at the time of the murder? Since you weren’t in any of the alibi photos?”
His eyes shifted down. “Being an artist doesn’t pay verymuch,” he mumbled. “I was in the corner, stuffing the leftover appetizers in my bag.”
Ah. I made a mental note to see if there was anything my nonprofit could do for him. Nobody should leave a gala with deviled eggs leaking all over their wallet. “Anyway, how’s tonight going? I’m sorry the people from the gala who expressed interest—who was it, the Jean-Pierres?—didn’t show.”
He snorted, the unimpressed-with-literally-everything mask falling back into place. “There’s still time. Then again, they were recently involved in some scandal, weren’t they? They might not want to be involved with an artist plagued by it.” He appeared momentarily thrilled by the idea of being scandal-plagued.
“Really?” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. The wife, Cora, was still nagging at me, because IknewI knew her from somewhere. That heart-shaped face, those catlike green eyes. And as far as I could tell, she hadn’t been in one of the alibi-granting photos. Could she have been one of the people Conrad had harassed or wronged? “Do you know what happened?”
He shrugged. “I think her family was involved in some kind of scandal last year where they lost all their money. Her husband didn’t like being associated with the icky poors. I heard he did whatever he could to separate himself and his wife from them. Maybe he didn’t want more scandal.”
A scandal where they lost all their money… catlike green eyes…
My breath quickened. “That family? Was her sister the one arrested for my grandmother’s murder?”
