Mirren ended the call, a queer sense of déjà vu swirling around her ears. Surely, Julia was making too much of this. She would let her husband and dad know, of course, but she had to believe that this—whatever this mess was—would blow over.
twenty-six
HANNAH
Smith Gallery Dublinwas lit up like a glittery beacon in the otherwise overcast, dreary sky. Hannah watched all the socialite darlings swagger into the posh gallery—that used to be her. She used to be invited to all the best events.
Hannah had pretended to peek at the art through the window while couples streamed past. She wore a simple black wrap dress, a faux fur swing coat, and a fake diamond and emerald necklace she’d picked up earlier at one of the shopping mall kiosks.
A size fourteen when she used to be a four.
Not a lot of calories are burned sucking men off.
One voice cackled.Did you know we had you suck off that filthy druggie in the alley as part of his payment?
She pretended not to hear them, though she winced. Hannah remembered after she came back from her lost hours that there’d been an awful taste in her mouth. She’d suspected.
One young woman with short hair and wearing a sharp, fitted suit stopped to look at the artist’s picture and bio posted outside for the event in a disgustingly reverent way.
Hannah decided to try to gain some intel. “I wonder if the artist works directly with Mirren Campbell. She’s one of the best in the business.” She made sure to keep her fancy, wide-brimmed hat tilted over half her face. The shadows would help hide her appearance in case someone was clever enough to look at the gallery’s cameras.
The young woman tore her gaze from the flyer. “You know Mirren?”
“Oh yes. We ran in the same circles in Edinburgh. I came early tonight to see the exhibit because I have to leave town soon, and unfortunately, I missed seeing Mirren. Do you know if her younger sister, Margaret, will attend? I so wanted to meet her.” In hell, Hannah thought.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure she is. Would you like me to pass on a message if she does come? What was your name again?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Hannah Keels. And no message, I’ll be back in town for the next exhibit. Have a lovely evening. The artist is wonderful.”
The voices snickered in her head at the name she gave. She loved it when she amused them.
“Anna deserves to be celebrated,” the young woman remarked. “Safe travels.”
She used to be a celebrated artist, Hannah thought, as she walked away.
Now you’re just old, fat, and ugly.
Crazy murderers don’t usually get fancy invites printed on perfumed cardstock.
“Fuck all of you,” she hissed. “I’m not the one who botched a simple hit-and-run, am I?” She wouldn’t take their abuse because they were angry that the girl bounced back yet again from one of their grand schemes.
“You fucked everything up now. Did you hide my identity when you gave that man drugs and sent him off in a stolen car?Because if they find him, we’ll be back in that hospital before the sun rises.
“You complain about my subtle psychological plays, but your efforts in hiring drug addicts haven’t worked out so well for you either.”
The Morrow bitch has nine lives.
If we had a better body, we could have taken her out ourselves and fuck the middleman, but no, we have you.
Disgusting.
Dumb.
Untalented.
Good for nothing.
Freak.
