There didn’t appear to be any works in progress in the studio, and the white walls were bare. There was a table on one side, and beside it a bookshelf loaded with paints and other materials. The other side of the space held his tools of destruction. A workbench with a circular saw, its curved teeth gleaming in a sickening, endless smile. Beside it, an unlit blowtorch. Mallets, hammers, and chisels hung on the wall above.
A clipboard was handed to Rafferty, who signed with a jerky flourish of movement. Had he used his artistic signature on the delivery slip? Pompous. With nothing left to do, the men filed out, shutting the door behind them.
“I should use that freight company more often,” he said, “if they’re going to deliver a beautiful woman with each shipment.” His compliment was jarring, but like all women, it was nice to hear.
“I’m not part of your delivery. I’ll call a cab to take me back to Maritza’s gallery when we’re done here.”
“All right.”
I stared at him as he retrieved a crowbar and gripped it with steady hands.
It was dangerous. The air in the room grew sharp and debilitating.
I flinched when the crate was pried open with a loud groan of protest. I felt the crowbar ripping off my skin and exposing me to Rafferty’s eager gaze. The heavy blanket was peeled back, revealing the next layer of foam wrap. My breath halted as the long strands of white plastic were methodically unwound from the base upward.
Blood roared faster in my veins with each new, undamaged inch that was uncovered. My heart sank to my toes as he made it two-thirds of the way up the stem, and everything seemed intact. He moved faster as he uncoiled the wrap around the slender part, and slowed as he hit the first series of delicate petals.
The plastic shifted, and a faint, but distinct clink made him hesitate.
Sadness and hope mixed together and was a hard taste for me to stomach. There was absolutely damage to my work. I didn’t want to see it, but couldn’t look away, either. I had to know if it was destroyed.
Rafferty let go of the plastic and the end fluttered to the beautiful wood floor. He took a step back, holding the jagged petal pieces in his hands, his stunned gaze locked onto the wounded area of the sculpture.
The base of the piece was littered with what, at first glance, appeared to be garbage. A torn book. Crumpled receipts. A crushed blue box with a white ribbon. A stained legal document. It had taken a long time to select the hundreds of items I’d replicated and painted to seem inconsequential. Objects of everyday life and some more important, all stacked on top of each other, building up in a mound.
I’d covered the top with moss, which had been difficult to recreate. For years I’d mixed media, often using live flora, but this piece I wanted to capture entirely in a lasting, permanent form. I’d opted for metal, wood, and clay. I’d also chosen to paint the moss a sickly yellow-green, like it was a disease feeding from the garbage.
Out of the moss rose up a slender green stem, and vibrant yellow petals branched out and bloomed into an orchid. The flower of new beginnings. Only now my new beginning was fractured in three large pieces.
“Can you repair it?”
Rafferty’s deep voice jolted me, and I swung my gaze from my sculpture to meet him. He was angry, but it appeared to be at the situation and not directed at me. I wouldn’t think about what he was cradling in his hands.
With the right materials, I was certain I could repair the broken petal and attach it where no one would see the cracks.
“Possibly.” I swallowed a breath. “I need to know what you have planned for it first.”
He acted offended. “That’s none of your business.”
“All right.” My voice was steady. “Do you have duct tape?”
“From what I understand, you don’t have a sense of humor.” His expression set. “Or did you develop one in prison?”
-3-
Rafferty’s cruel comment cut me with a thousand knives dripping with shame. I stared at the direction of the grain in the floorboards.
I hadn’t intended to kill the woman who was already legally dead, but it didn’t matter to the state of California. Due to my “extreme disregard” for her health, I’d been charged with murder. I’d sold everything I owned to pay for a top-notch attorney. He’d been successful in getting my confession thrown out, and the evidence wasn’t there for a slam dunk conviction if it went to trial. The district attorney wanted guaranteed time, unwilling to risk a loss, and offered a plea.
Four years for taking another’s life. I was out on parole after two. People told me it wasn’t enough, but I got what I deserved. She only died once. I died every night in confinement for two long years.
Rafferty’s frustrated sigh echoed in the studio. “That was uncalled for, I’m sorry. I’m upset this very beautiful piece is damaged.”
His voice was . . . strange. Was I narcissistic to wonder if he was really talking about me? My gaze traced the lines flowing in the wood below my feet while I tried to find a response. Everything was easier when I could pretend the last few years hadn’t occurred.
“Look at me, Ms. Carnes.”
His demanding tone lit a fire in my belly and I cast my attention back to him. The bright yellow peeked out between his tanned fingers. Was