The Art of Murder

by Claire Ripley

  I sighed in response, looking back and forth between the two of them.

  "Emma, go with him." Nina looked squarely at me, drawing herself up to her full five feet. "You're safer with him until this blows over." She placed a small revolver in my hands, covering my hands with hers. She pulled me into another hug and whispered in my ear, "Go. He's very sexy. I like him."

  I blushed and gently tapped her arm, smiling. "Nina!" I chided, embarrassed.

  Thirteen

  For the second time that day, I was in the warmth and safety of Connor's Suburban. As he shifted into drive, we left tonight's nightmare in the rearview mirror. Emotions were running high and I was bruised and aching from fighting. Despite reassurances that Nina would be fine, I worried about her and shuddered to think what would have happened if Connor hadn't shown up when he did. Who were these people? How did they track me to Nina's house? I had only arrived a few hours prior before the break-in.

  My body was spent, and my mind was spinning like a top. I rested my head against the seat and stared blankly at the night traffic blurring by on the streets of Charleston. Connor turned up the heater, the warmth relaxing me and making my cheeks tingle.

  I jolted awake at the sound of the garage door closing behind us. Numbly, I followed Connor inside. He disarmed the alarm and told me to stay put while he checked the house.

  While I waited, I fumbled through the cabinets in the kitchen. A drink seemed like a terrific idea after tonight's events. On the third try I found what I was looking for, noting he kept the whiskey next to the glasses. I poured us both two glasses, neat.

  Connor joined me in the living room a few minutes later and took the glass I handed him, taking a seat on the sofa next to me. Neither one of us had bothered to switch on a lamp and a lone kitchen light filtered through. We were silent swallowing the first shot. I grimaced and coughed as the brown liquid burned my throat. It would take the edge off and settle my frayed nerves.

  "How're you feeling?" He asked.

  I touched the tender spots on my neck where the man had tried to squeeze the life out of me. "Been better," I told him with a wan smile. Then I remembered the two men and their bodies being loaded onto stretchers by paramedics. "What happened to the two guys? Are they...?" I trailed off.

  "Luckily no, they're not dead," he answered. "As soon as they're conscious, the guard on duty will let me know. I've got a few questions for them," he told me darkly. He took the bottle and refilled his glass. His tone and the threatening look made me decide I wouldn't want to get on his bad side.

  "I got there just in time, Emma." He gave me a sideways glance and took another long swallow. "I thought you were dead, you know," he said in a low voice. Surprised, I looked over at his profile, focusing on his drink. It was the first I'd seen him looking exhausted.

  "How...how do you think they knew I was there?" I asked.

  He was quiet, cradling the glass in both hands, his elbows propped on his knees. When he did finally look me, his face was drawn, and even in the dim light I could see how tired he was. "Chief got confirmation—they’ve put a hit on you."

  "Why? How?" I gulped the whiskey, and this time, welcomed the burn in my throat and the warmth in my belly, a stark reminder that I was still very much alive.

  "Because you're the only witness to the murder."

  "That's it?"

  "Isn't that enough? You can link the Sgambatis to stolen art, and second degree murder. That would put them away for a long time. Cripple their business."

  "Well, fuck."

  "You're not screwed. There's an end to this, Em."

  "Not if they get to me first."

  "They won't if you are in protective custody."

  "I still don't want it," I said, shaking my head. I'd always been a survivor and the idea of protective custody didn't comfort me. It sounded isolating, and once again, the government would be calling the shots in my life. Never again would I let a government agency make decisions on my life. "I'll go to New York for a few days, and hopefully get my apartment sorted out."

  "Not what I'd recommend. You're rolling the dice."

  We were silent after that, the dim light offering a refuge from conversation. I leaned back in the deep sofa and propped my legs on the coffee table and cupped my glass. There was so much to think about. Too much to think about. For now, none of it registered. The whiskey made my eyelids heavy and exhaustion took over. I was used to being tired, working two jobs and eating whatever leftovers the restaurants would give me at the end of my shifts. Despite growing up the way I did, and the countless reasons I could be cynical, I remained optimistic. Hopeful. It was hope that got me out of bed at five A.M. to paint before work, or to settle for a cup of coffee at the office to calm my growling stomach because it was free, and payday was four days away.

  But tonight, as the adrenaline wore off and my optimism wore thin, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. My emotions were all over the place, leaving me feeling raw and vulnerable. I wanted to sleep for days, wake up and find out this nightmare had ended. The struggle of making ends meet seemed quaint compared to fighting for my life.

  I woke later in the same spot on the sofa. Connor must have covered me with a blanket and taken my glass. I looked around and noticed he was stretched out, sitting next to me and feet propped on the coffee table, one arm rested on my tucked legs. He was staring into the fireplace deep in thought. He had changed into sweats and wasn't wearing a shirt. His scarred, muscular body contrasted against the evening shadows. He had his fingers laced behind his head and a frown creased his forehead.

  "Hey," I said softly.

  For one fleeting moment, I saw traces of stress on his face before his expression shuttered. "Nice shirt," he murmured, tugging lightly on the hem.

  Well, shit. Busted. I was still in his sweatpants and Navy t-shirt. I cringed at my choice of clothes, both for their sloppy appearance and for what that choice might reveal.

  I shrugged nonchalantly. "First thing I grabbed, I guess."

  "You're a terrible liar."

  "It's just pajamas, something I threw on at Nina's," I told him, as my face reddened.

  "Relax. You'd look gorgeous in anything, Alabama." Our eyes caught and held for a beat, the air thickening.

  He was mesmerizing like this. He had the whole brooding hot male thing going on, with no shirt and his battle-scarred chest. It was hypnotic. He'd placed his gun on the coffee table, within quick reach. For the first time since I'd met him, he was calm and relaxed.

  Connor reached over and lightly traced the marks left on my neck. "How's the neck?"

  "Fine," I whispered, unmoving.

  His eyes followed his finger's path down my collar bone and then to a lock of my hair, giving it a slight tug before letting it slip through his fingers. "You should go to bed," he said roughly, clearing his throat and propping his elbows on his knees. He dragged his hands through his hair, and I didn't miss the sigh he released either. “I’m just a man, Emma, and it’s taking everything I have to keep my hands off of you.”

  "Um, right. Sorry." I'd forgotten Connor had given me his room and was sleeping on the couch. The blanket fell to the floor and I hurriedly got up and scurried to the bedroom with a slew of unnamed emotions swirling in my chest.

  It took me a long time to fall asleep after that.

  ✽✽✽

  I woke the next morning after a fitful night's sleep. My dreams lingered, the images from the break-in and whatever hell was planned for Nina and I played in my mind. I was giving it my best effort to ignore these gruesome thoughts. I should be grateful we were alive, and Connor got there when he did.

  I padded into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Connor must have been up already because there was leftover coffee in the pot.

  "Mornin'." Connor emerged from his office, dressed in his trademark dark khaki slacks and a white button-down shirt. He frowned as he slid into a navy jacket. The tension was rolling off of him, his movements swift and efficient.


  I nodded, pausing mid-pour to glance up at him. Last night's emotions resurfaced, reminding me that we hadn't agreed on anything regarding the protective custody. "Morning."

  "Our two suspects are awake and I'm heading to the hospital to interview them." He avoided looking at me as he grabbed his wallet and phone from the counter and slipped them into his pocket. Finally, he looked up, the amber depths causing me to pause again. "I've arranged two plainclothes police officers to watch the house while I'm gone. Don't go anywhere. Security system's armed. I'll be back later."

  "As if I could leave," I muttered, leaning against the counter and cradling my coffee in my hands.

  The door slammed behind him with a thud.

  That left me with the morning to myself. My fingers were itching to paint, but I was without supplies.

  I'd learned from an early age that my art was therapeutic. Sketching happy scenes in my notebook helped me resolve problems and make decisions when I lost myself in creating. With a paintbrush as my pen and the canvas my notebook, I made sense out of chaos in a foster home. I got lost in the emotion of color and brush strokes. I didn't understand artistic theory and finding meaning behind art. The elite art world existed for some artists. I embraced painting as something deeply personal; visceral and emotional rather than cerebral or rational. I knew it made sense to me and that if I went too long without creating something, I would get twitchy and irritable like an amputee yearning to itch a phantom limb.

  I first noticed Connor's tub when he was bandaging my injuries in the bathroom. Since then, I'd looked at it longingly every time I went in there. I'd grabbed a quick shower since I'd been at his house, but that tub taunted me. Enjoying a long soak was a luxury I didn't have as my studio apartment housed a shower stall that barely accommodated my petite frame. I couldn't remember the last time I took a bath. My apartment was destroyed, and I couldn't paint, so giving myself this tiny bit of luxury seemed justifiable. Now that I was alone in the house, I had the opportunity. A bath would be a perfect way to relax, especially after the past week's events.

  It was one of those framed, garden style tubs equipped with jacuzzi jets and counter space surrounding the rim. I climbed in, closed my eyes and let the water wash over me as the heat stung my skin. I liked the water so hot it was barely tolerable. I slid my eyes closed, content with the peace and quiet. The water tingled momentarily, then I adapted to the heat. I practiced the meditation techniques I learned from some yoga class I’d once taken. I focused first on relaxing my limbs, and then relaxing each toe one by one, gradually moving up the rest of my body. The hot water did its job, my head clearing and anxiety ebbing, along with the fear and uncertainty that had taken root in my belly the last few days.

  As the steam rose, my guard fell, and ugly thoughts made their way back into my head. My life had become a house of cards, ready to crash with the slightest breeze. I'd narrowly escaped an attacker in the parking garage. The break-in at Nina's house rattled me. How long could I keep escaping? And Nina. God, if something had happened to her, I'd be lost. Devastated. What did they want with me? Was Connor right? Just because I had seen a robbery and murder? I was nobody. I'd lived under the radar, no one noticing if I got to school on time or ate dinner, but now I was being hunted. The life I yearned for was within reach, so close that I could taste it. I had Nina helping me connect with the art community. Getting into that New York gallery would be a rare opportunity to present my work to more customers and make more sales. I had to get to New York. Hit men be damned.

  I sank lower into the tub, the water creeping up my neck and lapping gently at my chin. I slid below the surface and closed my eyes.

  And just like that, my thoughts turned off, and I allowed myself to doze.

  I was jolted out of my reverie, eyes flying open, the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Someone was in the house. I listened again to the sound, my body still and hyper aware. Goosebumps prickled over my naked skin, but I didn't dare move. The water had grown cooler.

  The bathroom door opened, and a man's frame filled the doorway.

  Fourteen

  I screamed and swallowed a mouthful of water.

  I shot out of the water from my prone position, drawing my knees into my chest, simultaneously backing into the corner of the tub. I was spitting water, choking and pushing hair out of my eyes when Connor's face came into view.

  "You! You scared me!"

  "Not that I don't enjoy naked women in my bathtub, but here's a towel." Connor held out a towel to me and I snatched it and wrapped it around myself.

  "You could have knocked or announced that you were here!" I shouted.

  Connor leaned over the tub, bracing his hands on the edge. His eyes were hard and furrowed. This was a different side of him. "Emma. Keeping you out of harm's way is taking years off my life."

  "I'm fine! You left, and I wanted to take a bath. I didn't leave the house, just like you ordered, and you're giving me shit about keeping me safe!" I rolled my eyes at this, my irritation spiking.

  He leaned even closer, so that we were inches apart. He smelled of cologne and sweat, his jaw was clenching so hard I could see the muscle pulsing. "I rushed back here because your attackers alluded to your kidnapping today when I interviewed them. I called the house and your cell, but you didn't answer. The police outside the house? They had to leave by coincidence. What in the ever loving fuck do you think I thought at that point? You're going to give me a fucking heart attack before this is all over. And on top of it all, you’re naked under that towel!" He slammed the bathroom door behind him and leaving me gaping after him.

  I was still flushed with embarrassment when I returned to the kitchen dressed and ready to forget the fact that he'd seen me naked. I didn't know what to make of Connor. Last night I was certain he felt it too, that pull between us. Just now he was yelling at me and unable to read his emotions. The shy part of me was left speechless, but my defensive walls wanted him to back off. The easiest and most comfortable route would be to tell him off and keep him at arm's length. I didn't trust anyone, and being a skeptic had served me well.

  Sizzling onions greeted me when I walked into the kitchen. Connor was at the stove, pouring eggs into a skillet, still scowling.

  "I didn't know you cook," I said, ignoring his obvious bad mood.

  "When you've been on your own as long as I have, you learn a few things to feed yourself," he replied curtly.

  I watched him add onions and cheese to the top of the eggs. "Omelets?" I guessed. "Need any help?" I didn't know anything about cooking, but I could at least offer.

  "No." He flipped the omelet and turned to slide two pieces of bread into the toaster.

  He was obviously shaken from thinking someone had broken in. Watching from the counter, I didn't press him any further. A few minutes later we were both seated at the counter with omelets, toast and coffee.

  "What happened at the hospital?"

  "Your attackers admitted they work for Gianni Sgambati, but they don't know anything else. After they're discharged later today, they'll be moved to the station once they're released and processed."

  "What did they want with Nina?"

  "To get to you. Nina was just the beginning. There's a target on your head, and the Sgambatis have put a reward out for someone to make that happen."

  "Wow," I let out a stilted laugh. "It can't get much worse, right? What about Nina? Any word on her?"

  "Emma," he touched my hand briefly and held my eyes. "Nina's just fine. A few scratches and bruises, but she'll be out of the hospital soon." he reassured in a firm voice.

  I nodded and glanced down at his hand. He pulled away abruptly and returned to his food.

  "There's one more thing I need to update you on."

  "Lay it on me."

  "Official protective custody is taking longer than I'd like, despite the rush I put on it."

  My toast lodged in my throat and I had to push it down. "I thought I said I didn't want it."

&nbs
p; "That's what you said, and I filed for it anyway."

  "I don't want to do it, Connor. Other people in my life are in danger now. Nina's shaken up, but thankfully okay. Who's next--Caty? We can't all enter protective custody. My show is coming up and I'm headed to New York tomorrow to meet Nina's contact. I'll be out of your hair and out of danger for that time anyways."

  He tightened at the mention of New York. "Don't go to New York. Leaving town doesn't guarantee anything. In fact, it makes things worse."

  "They have no way of knowing where I am."

  He sighed and took a long swig of coffee. Mistaking his non-response as a lack of argument, I went on. "I've got to keep going and living my life. I can't stop what I have going for me based on what you hear on the street."

  "Alabama, that's the thing. I don't know. There's a price on your head. So it's a possibility that you could be followed. For now, I want you here while I push this protective custody through."

  I blinked at him in surprise. Was he seriously making decisions about my life? Exasperated, I snapped, "Excuse me? What right do you have ordering me around?"

  His gaze narrowed in on me. "I'm keeping you alive, aren't I? As the federal agent on this investigation, I'm giving you my professional opinion, Miss Elliott."

  "I'm going to New York, whether you like it or not, Agent Jackson," I shot back. "This is a big deal for me to connect with another art gallery in a major market. I'm not turning it down."

  "That's what this is about? Making money?"

  Realizing his question wasn't rhetorical, I nodded.

  “You're saying some shitty little painting is worth more than your life?" He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. "Here's five hundred bucks if that's what you're looking to make in New York."

  "You're an asshole," I hissed. "Go back to DC. You're nothing but a suit."

  ✽✽✽