The Living Canvas (Master of Trickery, #2)

by Pepper Winters

  I cleared my throat. “I told her I would still be close and that she can visit but that I won’t be living with her for a while.”

  “How did it go?”

  I laughed painfully. “Awful.”

  “Always is.” He gave me a pitiful look. “Just remember, nothing lasts forever. Good, bad, terrible—it all passes in the end.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Last night, while hugging Olive, I’d done my best not to suffocate her, knowing my allotment of hugs had come to an end. Justin had given us privacy, vowing he’d guard her while I could not.

  I’d never felt more destitute as I had in that moment. Asking another man to look after my own flesh and blood. I didn’t have shit in my bank account, and I didn’t have shit in my human worth to ever pay him back.

  My heart pounded as more people trickled into the courtroom. Brad Scott had fought many cases, representing low-level criminals and white-collar, but I doubted he’d dealt with a case where the public stood outside the courthouse, demanding justice by cutting off my hands so I could never paint and then tying me to a tree to bleed out.

  The family of the girls who’d been killed sat silently on the benches, waiting to hear my fate. A few journalists with pens poised over notepads and recording devices also waited for the show. It wasn’t a big audience—probably court requested so emotions didn’t get out of hand—but I had no support or friends in the sea of people who wanted me to die.

  Justin was elsewise occupied.

  And I hadn’t told O what time I would face judgement.

  I didn’t want her to see my end.

  My gaze danced around the space, not making eye contact with anyone. The overall atmosphere was of death and decay, ready to send me to a coffin rather than a cell.

  The jury hadn’t come in yet. I didn’t know how courts worked or what I was in for.

  I would learn as it unfolded and then suffer the consequences.

  “How will this go?” I linked my hands together, thinking of the paint supplies and boxes that I’d put into storage that Justin had in his apartment building. I thought about Olive and her pretty smile and not being able to tuck her into bed tonight. I thought about the waste of a life all because I’d always been so fucking naïve and too proud to ask for help.

  I wanted help today.

  But I didn’t know how to ask for it.

  “Well, you’re slightly different. The public have put pressure on the system which is why your court date has been rushed. You’ll be judged by a twelve-person jury. Once they’re sworn in, the prosecution will present the evidence. Call a few witnesses if they have any. Maybe call you to the stand. And then, it’s my turn. The judge has already read the case files but we’ll give our side of the story as candidly and as truthfully as you did when we rehearsed the other day. Okay?”

  I nodded even though nausea ran through me. “Okay.”

  “Good.” He brushed lint off his navy suit. “Once everything has been presented, the jury will deliberate, and the judge will oversee the verdict.”

  “And then I go to prison.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But the chances of me going home tonight are nil.”

  His eyes narrowed, not sugar-coating or making false promises. “You committed murder, Mr. Clark. You admitted to it. Unless a miracle happens today, you’re serving time. The question is how much and in what form.”

  I settled back in the hard chair as more people dribbled in. Time took on a strange nightmare quality. My body felt as if quicksand sucked at me, sinking into the floor.

  A loud clang sounded behind me as the double doors of the crown court were closed. An official clerk asked us to rise for the honourable judge, and the selected jury trickled in from the backroom to be sworn in to assess me fairly but harshly.

  By the time the judge pinned me with her icy blue eyes, her age wearing lines around her lips and white wig sitting perfectly on her head, I’d died, revived, and waited for death all over again.

  Shifting in the chair, I pulled out a picture of Olive that I’d tucked inside my wallet. A printed piece of normal paper where the colours were wish-wash and paper creased, the image snapped on my phone and printed on Justin’s printer.

  It was us two nights ago while we’d sat at Justin’s dining room table with the views over the Birmingham skyline while I taught her yet another technique of bending paint to her will. She was so smart. So talented. She could scale any goal and crush any dream.

  She’d survived a year without me.

  She could survive more, especially now that she had Justin looking out for her.

  My thumb traced over her lovely face as the prosecution began presenting the evidence. I didn’t listen. I already knew what happened to the girls as they’d slipped into drawn-out death. I already knew how Jeffery took his last breath.

  I just kept my eyes on my daughter and waited for my turn to tell a story.

  * * * * *

  “Mr. Clark, as you’re aware, today has been a long day and we’ve seen and heard some disturbing things. It’s public knowledge that the family of the deceased want you to pay for what happened to their daughters, as they should—as anyone should when a loved one is stolen from them.” Brad Scott paused, walking around with his hands in his suit pockets, looking at the jury, judge, and audience. “I’m an upstander of justice, and I’m also sworn to represent you to the best of my ability. Since taking you on as a client, I’ve had emails and phone calls, death threats and curses if I get you off what you deserve.”

  I swallowed, risking a quick look at the jury. They sat stone-faced and already resolute on their verdict, thanks to the overwhelming evidence presented by the prosecution. Sitting in the box in front of court was a terrifying place to be. I was on display. I had nowhere to hide. No way to stop the inevitable.

  For four hours, they’d thrown every fact and grotesque incident that’d happened, sticking it entirely to me. Even I couldn’t deny the facts—the man who orchestrated those poor girls’ deaths was a monster and deserved to rot in hell.

  Only problem was, I was only half that monster.

  Brad continued, “Now that we’ve heard the evidence, I want to hear your version of events because it’s not as black and white as the prosecution suggests.”

  I swallowed again, preparing to be honest about my life for the first time. When Brad had walked me through how things were going to go and what he expected me to say, I’d been against it. Why did they need to know my past? What did my high-school years have to do with now? But he’d insisted and...I’d agreed.

  Scanning the sea of angry, judging faces, I did my best to stay unaffected. To deliver what was needed and accept the consequences.

  O.

  I froze.

  I did a double take.

  Olin Moss sat in the middle of the audience.

  My gaze snagged with hers.

  I locked in place and was owned entirely by her.

  Fuck, seeing her here.

  What...what is she doing here?

  She bit her lip, her eyes wide and worried. How long had she sat there, obscured by the crowd? Why had she come?

  She shouldn’t be here supporting me. I’d set her free, goddammit.

  “Mr. Clark? Can you inform the court who Jeffrey Clark was and why you killed him?”

  A murmur went around the silent jury, tearing my gaze from O’s. I had so much to admit. Why had it been easier confessing to total strangers than it did to someone I loved?

  My eyes sought hers again, and I found strength that I should’ve found years ago.

  She was here.

  She hadn’t left me.

  Fuck, I loved her.

  Sitting taller, I balled my hands and prepared to answer.

  To admit...everything.

  “Jeffrey Clark was my father’s brother. I’d never met him until a few years ago. He came looking for me when my father died.”

  “Your father who died of alcohol poisoning and
raised you in a whore house?”

  I didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

  “And Jeffrey gained your trust?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Why did he go out of his way to make you trust him if his sole intention was to kill women?”

  “At the time, I thought it was because he was family. I didn’t know he was a psychopath who killed my father’s whores. I didn’t know who he truly was and wanted to believe not all my family was bad.”

  “But what he told you turned out to be a lie, correct?”

  “Not everything. He said he was a car painter and detailer—that was true. He said he shared my drive to create art—that was also true. But everything else was just a ploy to take my money—money I only started earning because of his tutoring and pushing me into a business idea that I would never have had on my own.”

  “And what business was that?”

  I avoided looking at O, feeling suddenly seedy. “Painting mostly naked women for large advertising campaigns.”

  “Why didn’t Jeffrey just do that himself?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure. He had the talent to do it. He painted the fourth girl, after all.”

  An electrified murmur shot around the court. Brad held up his hand for quiet, continuing his line of questioning.

  I added before he could speak, “When my business became successful, he wanted what I had. What he didn’t realise was I would’ve shared it all with him. I was unbelievably grateful for his guidance. He didn’t have to take it by force.”

  “How did Jeffrey Clark take it by force, even when you ran out of income?”

  “He kidnapped my daughter and blackmailed me.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “Because I didn’t want them to know Olive’s origins.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t want them tracking down her birth mother and forcing me to give up custody.”

  O flinched. But she never looked away. Never left me hanging or alone.

  Brad consulted his notes for a second, asking, “The mother of your child is called Jane Tallup, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who is Jane Tallup to you?”

  “Your honour, what is the point in dragging up the past?” The prosecution’s lawyer interrupted. “This isn’t relevant to the case.”

  “I beg to differ, your honour. It has everything to do with the case.” Brad scowled.

  The female judge peered at both lawyers then me before finally nodding, “Carry on, Mr. Clark.”

  I cleared my throat. “Jane Tallup was my teacher at high-school.”

  “And she’s the mother of your daughter.”

  I nodded again, annoyed at his repetitive question but aware of why he did it. To add more power to the punch line.

  The court moved restlessly, no doubt thinking I’d forced myself onto her.

  That I was a rapist as well as a killer.

  Brad paused, then said, “She raped you when you were a teenager, correct? She alienated you from your friends, forbid you contact with the girl you were in love with, and molested you.”

  I curled my hands. “I was a stupid kid who should’ve spoken out but didn’t.”

  “That sounds like you’re blaming yourself for what happened.”

  “I’m blaming myself for the consequences of not telling people when I had the chance.”

  “Hurry it along,” the judge muttered. “Get to the point.”

  The jury shifted on their chairs, their attention fully on me. My eyes stayed on O’s hazel ones, safe as long as I just focused on her. I wanted to do this. I needed to be honest. To finally purge the rot inside me, to eradicate the poison I’d carried alone for so long, but it didn’t mean it was easy.

  My life was full of regrets.

  Today would not be one of them.

  “So, not only were you raped in your youth, but your teacher—an adult in a position of power—stripped you of safety and dumped a baby on you...all because she didn’t want it?”

  I nodded but then shook my head, unable to let Olive be talked about as if she wasn’t wanted. “Olive might not have been wanted by her mother, and I might have been a vulnerable son of a bitch, but the moment I held her, I knew I loved her. She was wanted by me with all my heart, I just didn’t know it until I met her.”

  My lawyer strolled calmly around the courtroom, nodding as if what I said made perfect sense. “Once you met your daughter, you left your home and family behind.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want anything to jeopardise Olive’s future. My father wasn’t a good role model; my family environment was abusive and unstructured. The only good thing in my life was my girlfriend who I’d hurt when I’d tried to do the right thing by breaking up with her. I was prepared to walk away so Olive had things I never did. Safety and good food and a father who cared about her.”

  “Very noble,” the prosecution lawyer muttered.

  I glared at him. “I just did what any father would do.”

  “Not every father.” Brad pinned me to the chair. “Tell the court what happened the night you confronted Jeffrey with Olin Moss as his next victim.”

  A rise of energy swept around the jury as I admitted, “He shot me in the back, leaving me for dead.”

  “So your uncle tries to kill you and your father regularly used you as a punching bag.” Brad peered at the jury. “I’d say family hasn’t been kind to you, yet you did everything humanly possible to protect and claim back your daughter.”

  “Of course. I would never stop fighting for her.”

  “Would you kill another to protect her?”

  He’d warned me he’d start sweet and swiftly divert into dark. I’d been waiting for the hard questions but it still made my heart skip. “I think anyone would if it was justified.”

  “Did you kill those innocent girls?”

  I sat taller, keeping my hands on my thighs. “No, I did not. My uncle, Jeffrey Clark, did.”

  “The same Jeffrey Clark you killed?”

  I nodded. “I ended his life for killing those girls as well as hurting Olin Moss and kidnapping my daughter.”

  My eyes searched out O’s. Her skin had turned white and lips bitten with nervousness.

  “So you admit that you are a murderer.”

  “Of a man who’d murdered girls, blackmailed me, and threatened rape to the only woman I’ve ever loved, yes. I am. I killed him.”

  A buzz of energy came from the jury again.

  Brad ignored them. “But you didn’t kill the other girls?”

  “No.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then why was the same brand and batch number of your paint found on their skin?”

  I braced myself. “Because I painted them.”

  The buzz of energy became a tidal wave of tension.

  I stayed focused on my lawyer, trusting him to navigate through the next chaos.

  “How is it that you painted them and didn’t stop them from being killed? If you painted them for your uncle to murder, you knew what their fate was. That makes you an accessory. You had a moral and civil obligation to report the crime.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  My lawyer scoffed before the jury could. Such a weak and useless answer. But it was the truth, regardless. “You didn’t know? How did you not know? You painted them to match the undergrowth where they were killed.”

  “He did that.”

  “You’re saying he staged each murder depending on how the girls were painted?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do realise how this sounds? That you’re asking the jury to believe in an unbelievable excuse that you didn’t ...know?”

  This was where he wanted me to play my trump card.

  I’d rehearsed my paragraph. I had my truth. It wouldn’t set me free, but it would grant some resemblance of peace.

  Looking again at O, I said, “I’ve done many commissi
ons over the past few years. Some are garish and bright, some are fantastical and mythical, others are natural and pure. Those are the jobs I love the most. The ones where I get to use nature as my palette. The designs where foliage and shadow, flora and fauna consume the model and make her a part of their world.”

  Some of the jurors rolled their eyes. Others stared at me with doubt. Only a few kept judgement from showing.

  “The girls were painted because of me. I can show you the invoices and emails requesting that sort of camouflage. I can show you where the photo shoot was taken and even present a couple of magazines where the photos were used. What I can’t show you is the location of where Jeffrey Clark put them because if you look very closely, they weren’t designed to go with that body paint.”

  “So they were canvases you’d hired?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “If you look at their bank accounts, you’ll see payment for the time we spent together.”

  “How did your uncle grab them before they’d showered off their paint?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, cursing once again for being an idiot. “The number of canvases who ask if they can keep the paint on to show loved ones before washing is extremely high. I always offer them a shower before they leave. Some take it, but most don’t. I’m not responsible for them when they walk out the door.”

  “No, but you are responsible if they get killed.”

  I hung my head. “I’ll always feel guilty for playing even a small part in their demise. I’m guilty for a great many things. But I didn’t kill them. I didn’t know they’d been targeted until it was too late. When the ransom demands came in, I always paid. I paid countless times and he held off killing—or at least, I hope he did. When the girls started showing up, I didn’t know it was my paint they wore. After all, Jeffrey taught me. He was just as capable of the artwork as I was.”

  “But you had a suspicion?”

  “By the second girl, yes...I worried.”

  “And why didn’t you go to the police then? When you knew lives were being taken?”

  “I honestly can’t answer that.” I sighed. “I was still afraid of Olive being taken away from me, but she’d already been taken so that wasn’t such a big restriction. I guess, I knew I was in too deep. And if I was arrested, how could I keep working and paying him? How could I prevent him from killing Olive if I was in jail? She would die.”