Page 2 of Little Twisted Things

“Thank you.” I smiled as I watched him walk out of the kitchen.

Professor Alex Whitmore was handsome and charming. His smile was warm, genuine, and very disarming. I knew better. Looks were nothing but a weapon, as was charm. While some people carried guns, others carried smiles. And that was just as dangerous. But I wanted a connection. Just like Katherine had, although her connections turned into tragedy.

Alex was overly smart, funny, fun, and successful. On paper, he was the perfect man. And in my experience, perfect men always hid the darkest secrets. But the more I studied him during our brief relationship, the more I could see he was the exception.

I set my coffee cup in the sink and headed upstairs to get ready for my job interview. Katherine inherited enough money after her husband died, and the brownstone was sold, so I never had to work a day in my life. But comfort bred boredom, and boredom had always been dangerous for someone like me. It was time to shake things up.

An art gallery. The thought made me smile. I’d loved art for as long as I could remember. Long before I ever had a body of my own. Art wasn’t just something beautiful hanging on a wall. It was emotion frozen in time. Every painting held a secret, a confession, a memory. Katherine appreciated art. I devoured it.

I remember the night at the art gallery when she met Oliver in front of the painting Eyes Without a Face. I’d noticed the painting from across the gallery and led her to it. She thought it was creepy. I was drawn to it. There was something comforting about a face that revealed nothing. It reminded me of myself. I was behind the scenes, always watching. So, while I was locked away in Katherine’s mind, watching, waiting to make my move, I studied art as much as I could.

The one thing I learned about art was that artists couldn’t lie. Not really. Eventually, their darkest thoughts found their way onto the canvas. Wanting to work at the art gallery wasn’t about the paycheck. I didn’t need it. It was about me wanting to be surrounded by beautiful and mysterious things. Because, unlike people, art never pretended to be something it wasn’t.

I arrived at the gallery dressed in my finest tailored cream-colored pantsuit. My blonde hair rested in a loose bun at the nape of my neck, every strand perfectly in place, and my makeup was polished without being overdone. First impressions mattered, and I had no intention of making anything less than a memorable one.

The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside.

“Welcome to the Marlowe Gallery. How can I help you?” An older woman smiled.

“I’m Dahlia Gray. I have an interview this morning with Tess Harper.”

“I’m Tess.” She smiled, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Dahlia. I love your pant suit.”

“Thank you, Tess.” I smiled.

“Trina, I’ll be in the viewing room conducting an interview.”

Trina gave her a nod, and I followed Tess to the viewing room.

“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of the elegant gray colored couches. “Your resume is impressive,” she said. “I see you spent the last three years at Elliot Fine Art in New York City.”

“I did.” I smiled, for that piece of information was the only lie on the page. I knew everything about art. I just didn’t have the employment history to go with it. “I loved working there.”

“Why did you leave?” she asked.

“My husband passed away, and I needed a fresh start.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, Dahlia.”

“Thank you.”

“What type of artists did you represent?” she asked, staring me directly in the eyes.

I effortlessly explained to her in great detail. It wasn’t something I rehearsed before I arrived. It was purely the result of years of studying galleries, artists, auctions, and private collections.

“You certainly know your art.” Tess smiled.

“I love art.”

“I can tell.” She grinned. “It’s your enthusiasm and knowledge that this gallery needs. But I will have to give Elliot a quick call before making my decision.”

“Of course. I would expect you to.” I smiled.

She stood from her seat and extended her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Dahlia. I’ll be in touch.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” I lightly shook her hand.

I walked out of the gallery, silently laughing. She’d be calling Elliot Art tomorrow, or perhaps today. Exactly as planned.