“Alas, no.”
He removed the book from his bag and flipped it open, and Lorenna saw that it did not have writing in, as she’d thought. Before her lay the sketch of a woman draped in a sheet, her armsand shoulders bare. It was beautiful, but Lorenna had never seen such a portrait before. She flushed and sipped her drink again to disguise her embarrassment. Despite her initial reluctance to take the alcohol from him, she was enjoying the warmth in the pit of her stomach, and a welcome calm had started to wash over her.
“I am, like many Italians, an artist. Or I wish to be.”
“You are very talented…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” Lorenna said, averting her eyes from the portrait.
“I am Marco.” He smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth as he closed the sketchbook. “And you are?”
“Oh, of course! I’m Lorenna. I only arrived in New York this week, but it seems I shall be traveling home tomorrow.”
“Home?”
“Virginia.” Lorenna drained her glass and set it on the table. “I should like to return your kindness, but I’m afraid that scoundrel has ruined me. He took all of my savings.”
“You are in need of money?” Marco asked, finishing his own drink. Lorenna could not help but look at his large brown eyes. He really was very handsome.
“Yes. I have had no success finding employment. I thought I would have longer than this to look for a position.”
“I have a suggestion.” Marco leaned forward, gesturing for Lorenna to do the same. “I am about to attend a gathering of sorts. It’s a little more…bohemian…than you may be used to, though you won’t have to socialize.”
“Oh,” she said, unsure of his meaning. “I am sorry to keep you.” She pushed her chair back and began to stand. “Thank you for being so kind, sir.”
“You misunderstand me,” Marco replied, reaching for Lorenna’s hand. His tanned skin brushed hers and a pleasant shiver raced through her body. She didn’t know a man’s touch could feel that way—when her betrothed touched her, all she felt was fear. “I would like you to join me. We often need a model to pose for the artists, and you, my dear, are quite enchanting.” Lorenna’s eyes widened as she thought of the sketch. “Do not worry, you will be clothed,” he promised, drawing a finger across his heart in the shape of a cross. “You would have to do nothing but sit, and there would be some coins at the end of it all. Enough to cover lodging for a day or two more, if you still want to look for work.”
Lorenna’s eyes filled with tears. The thought of sitting in a room full of men she didn’t know was terrifying to her—if anyone found out, then her reputation would be ruined, and she might as well sell herself on the streets. But what was the alternative? To go back to Virginia and marry that vile man who openly groped the servants and loudly decreed that slavery should not have been abolished? To be forced to bear his children and live out her days in misery, just because her father desired their families to be joined together? No. She would not do it.
“I would be dressed?” Lorenna asked, her voice weak as she sank back into the seat.
“Of course.” Marco raised a hand in the direction of the bar and Anne approached with a murky brown bottle. He smiled as she topped up their brandy glasses. “Trust me.”
THIRTEEN
Izzy and I arrive tenminutes late to a busy art studio, where everyone has claimed a space to work on their projects. A couple of people nudge one another and stare as we enter. I’m not surprised—we must have been gossiped about all morning.
I scan the room from the doorway as Izzy wanders to a huge basket spilling over with multicolored balls of wool. She seems oblivious to the whispers, so I leave her to it and walk slowly through the room, scouting around for somewhere I can lay out the newspaper articles without anyone looking over my shoulder. Scarlett waves at me, so I return the gesture but keep my head down, not willing to talk about last night. I see Ford and Noah, too, both poring over large coffee-table art books from a shelf in one corner, but I don’t let on to them.
Instead, I approach the back of the room until I reach a messy desk. It’s by a large window that looks onto an inner courtyard, and is piled with stuff on one end and an ancient desktop computer on the other. It’s much quieter back here, which suits me, and there will be plenty of space if I do a quick tidy. The desktopmight be more useful than my iPad if I want to print anything, too. I put my bag down and spend a few minutes fiddlingwith the computer before realizing it isn’t even plugged in, but eventually I get it working and leave it to warm up.
I eye the pile at the end of the table while the computer creaks to life. This desk seems to be little more than a dumping ground, because I find several magazines with pages torn out, some snapped and leadless pencils and an array of chewed-up printouts that tell me the printer might not work so well. I stack the magazines neatly, figuring they might be used for collages or something, but take everything else to the trash. When I come back the computer is awake, and happily, the log-in details are taped to the side of the screen, so I enter them and resign myself to another five-minute wait as it loads. How did people used to do this all the time?
I flip idly through one of the discarded magazines, noting it’s older than my little brother, before pushing it away. I glance around the room and watch the other students at work instead. Everyone is busy, bustling around as they prepare themselves for a creative afternoon, and I can’t help but think it’s strange how normal everything feels after last night. Watching all these people mill around like nothing happened makes me almost believe I dreamed the whole thing. I bet it was a different story this morning, though. When everyone arrived, the news must have spread like wildfire. I’m glad we weren’t here for that.
I unpack my notebook, slowly pulling off the rubber band. Even though yesterday was a nightmare, I am intrigued by the story behind the self-portrait and I want to find out more about BBK, the serial killer mentioned in that article. I know I should be horrified even thinking about murder right now, but insteadI feel weirdly removed from it all. I’ve packed the whole incident away into a little box that I can scrutinize without getting it tangled in my emotions. I don’t know what that says about me—to be honest, I don’t really want to examinethatat the moment—but it means I can look at it somewhat objectively. For now, anyway.
I pull a tall stool over to the computer and load a web browser, typing the initials “BBK” in the search bar. The screen immediately fills with results; seems like BBK is fairly well-known, and I wonder how I haven’t heard of him. I scroll down the page and look at links to articles on everything from Wikipedia to the Encyclopedia Britannica to a website called BBKunmasked.com. I sigh and go back to the beginning. Good old Wikipedia it is. I start to jot down notes as I skim-read the BBK entry, scribbling a few lines before I pause to rub my eyes. God, this is basic. I read it again, but the scant information doesn’t change. BBK, or Bind, Bleed, Kill, was an unknown serial killer. There were four victims in 1911, all women who were found on the Lower East Side of New York. There’s also a timeline of the murders, which I write down. BBK was never formally identified, but there are many,manytheories as to who he was, from the deranged son of a prominent New York businessman to a guy called Spring-Heeled Jack, a mythological figure from early 1800s London who had fingernails made from metal. I shake my head at the last one, deeming it ridiculous. As ifthatguy ever existed.
I scroll to a tab labeled “victims” and sit up a little bit straighter. Again, there’s not much detail and the women aren’t named, but it does tell me a bit more about the crime scenes. Each womanwas found tied to a wooden chair, and there was evidence of puncture wounds and bruising in the crooks of their elbows, indicating that they’d possibly had blood drained from their veins. There was also a significant lack of blood in each victim. I scribble feverishly as I wonder where I can find out more, especially about how they were posed, until I read a note reminding me of the fire Dad mentioned, the one that destroyed a lot of the evidence.
“Hello.” I almost fall off my stool at the male voice and put a hand to my pounding chest. Ford is standing on the other side of my desk, holding a wooden easel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scareyou.”
“It’s okay,” I laugh nervously, closing my notebook. “I was just in the zone.”
“Sorry,” he repeats. He stares at me for a moment and the hair on the back of my neck starts to prickle.
“Did you, er, want something?” I ask, trying to swallow the squeak in my voice. Ford blinks and looks down at the easel before looking back at me.
“Oh! Yeah. Do you mind if I set up my canvas at the end here?” He gestures to the window. “The natural light is great, and I like to compose a loose sketch on the canvas before I start.”
