Deadly

15 GALLERY GIRL

Thursday afternoon, Aria pulled into Old Hollis and found a space on the street. Then she got out, retrieved her portfolio from the backseat, and stood in front of her mother’s gallery. It was in a large Victorian with bay windows and a big front porch. There was a sun catcher in the front window, and bronze wind chimes hung from the eaves. Tulips sprung from the flower beds in the front lawn. Today was her first day of work, and she was trying to feel excited, but she just felt numb. Her portfolio felt heavy in her hands. She doubted that Jim, the gallery owner, would actually sell her stuff, but her mother had insisted she bring everything she was working on.

Squaring her shoulders, she started up the front walk, careful not to trip in her brand-new, hot-pink kitten heels. As she passed a large maple with a tire swing and a bird’s nest in one of the low branches, her phone bleated in her bag. She reached for it. AGENT FUJI, said the caller ID. Aria’s heart flipped. Had there been a break in the case?

“Hi, Aria, it’s Jasmine Fuji,” came the agent’s smooth, professional tone. “I have Spencer on the line, too. Do you have a sec?”

“Sure.” A shifting shadow across the street caught her eye, but when Aria looked over, whatever it was had disappeared. She didn’t see her security guy anywhere.

Fuji cleared her throat. “First of all, I appreciate you girls forwarding your notes from A to me. It’s been very helpful.”

“I got one last night, Aria,” Spencer’s gravelly voice broke in. “Have you gotten any?”

“Nope,” Aria said. “What did yours say?”

“It was threatening a friend of mine, Chase—the guy who runs the conspiracy website. I’m afraid he might be in danger. You may want to look into security for him, too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Fuji said. “But actually, I was calling because I want to clarify something with you girls about Graham Pratt. Aria, you sought out Graham, correct?”

Aria leaned her portfolio against the lamppost. “Not at all. We ended up in the same group on the cruise.”

“Hmm,” Fuji said. “So you didn’t realize until later that Graham was Tabitha Clark’s ex?”

“That’s right,” Aria said, turning away as a girl on a bike passed on the street. “Then I got a text from A almost the moment I found out, like A was watching.”

“Okay.” Fuji sighed. “I wish we could have spoken to Graham before he died.”

“Before he was killed,” Spencer corrected her. “By the way, have you looked into the N clue he gave Hanna at the burn clinic?”

Fuji chuckled softly. “We’re following up on everything, don’t worry.”

“What about a Preserve patient list from the time Ali was there?” Spencer goaded. “That would go a long way.”

“We’re on it.” Fuji sounded a little impatient. There was another muffled voice in the background on Fuji’s end. “Okay, girls, I gotta go,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”

“Wait!” Spencer said, but Fuji had already hung up.

Aria hung up, too, rolling her eyes. Spencer was type A to a fault.

“Aria! Thank goodness you’re here.”

The door to the Victorian had opened, and Ella stood just inside. Her mother was in her “gallery uniform”—a long patchwork skirt, a white peasant blouse, and a pair of blue suede Birkenstocks. She ushered Aria inside the house, which had been gutted into one large room that displayed countless paintings of Pennsylvania barns and wildlife on the walls. “A new artist is coming in a few minutes. We’re going to debut his work in a private show. It’s very exciting.”

Aria touched the top of an old spinning wheel that had sat in the corner of the gallery as long as she could remember—kind of like a lot of the artwork here. “What’s his name?” she asked.

Ella peeked out the front window. “Asher Trethewey.”

Asher Trethewey. Aria couldn’t have made up a more appropriate name for a retired lawyer-turned-artist if she tried. She could just picture him with a box of pastels, dithering over a pastoral scene of the Brandywine Water Gap. “Do you need my help?” she asked.

“Actually, I do.” Ella checked her watch. “I’m scheduled to meet another artist for lunch in fifteen minutes—so I have to go. I’m wondering if you’ll talk to Mr. Trethewey in my place.”

“Me?” Aria thumbed her chest. It seemed like a big responsibility.

“He just needs to pick up some paperwork.” Ella gestured to a stack of papers on the desk. “All you need to do is make sure he gets it, okay?” She checked her watch again, then grabbed her keys and purse from her desk. “I’ve got to run. I’m sure you’ll be fine!”

She flew out the door. Aria walked to the window and watched her scurry down the front steps and climb into her car. The motor growled to life, and her mother was gone. The street was eerily quiet in her absence. A squirrel paused on a branch, its head cocked. Wind chimes on the front porch swayed but didn’t touch. An airplane soared overhead, too high up to hear.

Aria spun around the big room, first staring blankly at a wall of watercolor still lifes, then looking down at the paperwork for the artist. It was full of legal mumbo-jumbo she didn’t understand. What if the artist had questions? This was so her mother. When they were living in Iceland, Ella had broken her leg while trying to catch a lost baby puffin up a tree, and while she was laid up, she’d asked Aria to drive their Saab to the grocery store. Never mind that Aria was only fourteen and had never driven in her life. “You’ll be great!” Ella had insisted. “Just stay on the left side of the road and stop at red lights!”

There was a knock at the door, and Aria turned. Rolling back her shoulders, she crossed the room and tried to prepare what she’d say—only, she had no idea what to say. When she opened the door, a young man in a black T-shirt and skinny gray pants, carrying a large black portfolio, stood on the porch. He had broad shoulders, smoldering ice-blue eyes, a perfect nose, a strong chin, and sensuous lips. He looked like a cross between a sexy British soccer player and a guy from a Polo cologne ad.

Aria raised an eyebrow. “Um, hello?”

He thrust out a hand. “Hi. I’m Asher Trethewey. Are you Ella Montgomery?”

“O-oh,” Aria stammered. She backed up, almost stumbling over her kitten heels. “Um, no, I’m her daughter, Aria. But I can help you. Come on in.” Her voice rose on that last part, making it sound like a question. “I have the papers right here,” she said, walking toward the desk.

Asher walked into the room and placed his hands on his hips. “Actually, I was going to show your mom my work—see what she thought would be best for the exhibit.”

“Oh.” Aria gritted her teeth. See? She knew something like this would come up. “Well, she’ll be back soon, I think . . .”

Asher cocked his head and smiled at Aria. “Or you can take a look, if you like.”

He set the portfolio on the desk and opened it up. Inside were a bunch of photographic images. All of them had an ethereal, out-of-focus quality to them, and most featured people caught in movement—jumping, spinning, flipping on a trampoline. Aria leaned down and inspected one picture of a little girl running through a sprinkler more closely. It wasn’t a photo at all but made of tiny pixels, like a mosaic.

“Whoa,” Aria said. “You’re a digital Chuck Close.”

A corner of Asher’s bow-shaped mouth rose. “A few reviewers have said that, too.”

“He’s one of my favorites,” Aria admitted. “I’ve tried to do pieces in his style, but I’m not talented enough.” She’d been inspired after going to a Chuck Close retrospective at the Philadelphia Museum of Art last summer. Noel had gone with her, spending hours there while she intently studied each work, not saying even once that he was bored.

She stiffened. Don’t think about Noel, Aria chided silently, giving herself a mental slap. She cleared her throat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you in Rosewood?”

Asher raised his head and chuckled. “I’m in Hollis because I have a fellowship gig I have to fulfill. Before that, I was in San Francisco.”

“Really?” Aria picked up a coaster that featured a fly trapped in a blob of amber, kind of feeling sorry for the poor bug. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“It’s chill.” He stretched his long, sinewy arms over his head. “Tell the truth. You thought I was going to be one of those artists who painted Amish buggies and cow pastures, huh?”

“Well, maybe,” Aria admitted. Her gaze returned to Asher’s work again. “Have you had a lot of shows?”

“I have an agent in New York, so I’ve been lucky.” He lowered his long lashes. “A couple of celebs have been interested in my work, so that’s kind of cool.”

Aria raised an eyebrow. “Anyone I’d know?”

Asher closed the portfolio. “A lot of indie musicians, old players in the art-gallery scene. The biggest name was probably Madonna.”

“The Madonna?” Aria couldn’t control her shriek. “Did you actually meet her?”

Asher looked embarrassed. “Oh no. I’ve talked to her on the phone. She’s so stuck-up with that fake British accent.”

“Oh, right,” Aria said, trying to regain her cool.

Asher closed the portfolio lid. “So you’re an artist, too?”

Aria fiddled with a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. “Oh, not really. Not seriously.” Her gaze darted to her own cardboard portfolio in the corner. It looked so shabby compared to Asher’s leather one. “There’s some stuff I’m still fiddling with.”

Asher’s blue eyes lit up. “Can I check it out?”

Before Aria could give permission, Asher strode over to the folder, lifted it up, and laid it next to his own on the desk. When he opened to the first piece, Aria’s face felt hot. It was a colorful, surreal painting of Noel. His skin was purplish. His hair was green. His body melted into a puddle. But it was Noel all the same—his eyes, his smile, his tufty hair. There was a hum inside her chest.

Asher flipped to another image of Noel. Then another. Aria glanced away, suddenly unable to endure them. Noel used to tease her about painting him over and over; he’d asked if he could have her work after the end-of-the-year art show at Rosewood Day. “Will you bring them to college with you?” Aria had joked. “Duh,” Noel had answered. “I’ll hang them in my room, next to my roommate’s porn pinups.” She supposed that wouldn’t be happening now.

“Are you okay?”

Aria blinked hard. To her horror, tears had filled her eyes. She tried to smile. “Sorry. All those paintings are of an ex. I’m still getting over him. I actually hate all this stuff. I should burn it.”

Asher peered at Noel’s face for a beat, then shut the folder. “I incorporate people I’m in love with in my paintings as well. It’s only human, you know?” He rolled toward her. “Don’t burn these. They could be worth something someday.”

Aria looked at him crazily. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious. These are amazingly deep. You’re really talented.”

The sun emerged from a cloud and streamed in through the window. Aria swallowed hard, not knowing whether she should smile or burst into tears. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Asher laced his fingers together. “You should keep at it. Show me stuff as you finish it. I could put you in touch with my agent.”

“What?” Aria blurted.

But Asher just smiled confidently. “I know talent when I see it.” Then he grabbed the stack of papers from the desk, slipped them into his portfolio, and tucked the whole thing under his arm. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch. Have your mom call me.”

“I will,” Aria said.

A warm, pleasant feeling enveloped her as she watched him step off the porch and lope down the street. She wanted to call someone right now and tell them a famous artist had encouraged her to paint more—imagine if he really hooked her up with his agent! Then she realized who it was she wanted to call: Noel.

But as Asher turned the corner, her mood shifted. The street was so dark and shadowless, suddenly. A car swished past a side street and didn’t slow. A cat meowed in an unseen alley.

Ping.

Her phone vibrated in her palm. Aria flinched and stared at the screen. ONE NEW MESSAGE FROM ANONYMOUS. She opened the text.

Don’t get too close to your new little artist friend, Aria. Or I’ll just hurt him, too. —A

Aria’s stomach clenched. How did Ali know? Was she listening? Was she just going to take down everyone Aria knew?

There was a way to solve this. She hit FORWARD and sent the note to Fuji. Then she stuffed her phone into her bag and willed herself to walk back into the gallery with her head held high. You’re safe, she repeated over and over in her mind. It’s all over. You’re finally going to move on.

At least she hoped so.