The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “Are you fucking kidding me, dude? Three and a half mill!” J.J.’s interested again. “Maybe I should deal.”

  “I’m a firm believer that if you do anything for the money, you won’t do it well,” Chase says.

  I grunt. “That’s easy for you to say when you have the money.”

  His dark gaze brushes mine.

  “Was it a piece your family owned?” Maxine asks.

  “No. Only Brook’s allowed to dig into the family vault. My dad’s not even licensed to sell anymore. Masterpiecers’ rules. It was a piece from Christie’s. I worked there one summer.”

  Dessert arrives. Vanilla soufflé. “I could really get used to this place,” Maxine says, picking up her fork and piercing the crisp top. It deflates slowly, the edges folding into the gooey center.

  “I propose a little toast.” Herrick raises his glass of wine. Maxine and J.J. follow suit while Lincoln, Chase, and I lift our glasses of sparkling water. “To fun, to knowledge, and to ambition.”

  Everyone’s about to drink when Lincoln blurts out, “Better look into someone’s eyes, Ivy, or you’re going to have seven years of bad sex.”

  Even though I’m not superstitious, I stare into the only set of eyes looking back: Chase’s.

  “I need more wine,” Herrick calls out, but no one comes. He spots the decanter on the buffet behind us and grabs it.

  “I think I’m going to call it a night.” Lincoln pushes back from the table. “Sweet dreams.”

  After she leaves, J.J. asks, “Anyone want her dessert?”

  It’s still golden and puffed.

  “I’m stuffed,” Maxine says.

  Even though I’m not usually one to turn down food, I don’t think my stomach can stretch anymore, so I shake my head.

  Herrick nurses his glass of wine. “It’s all yours.”

  As J.J. seizes Lincoln’s soufflé, Maxine nudges me. “We’re being filmed,” she whispers. She budges her eyeballs to the left, toward a camera with a glowing red dot that’s hooked into the corner of the tented ceiling.

  “Duh,” Herrick says. “They mentioned it in one of the files they sent us. We had to sign off on it. Didn’t you read it?”

  “I hate fine print,” Maxine says.

  Herrick shrugs. “We’re on a reality TV show. It’s standard.”

  “Does it record our conversations or just our images?” Maxine asks.

  “Just our images,” Herrick says, downing the last of his wine. He smiles and waves at the camera.

  After a beat, I ask, “Are there cameras in our rooms?”

  Herrick smirks. “You got something to hide, Ivy?”

  “My body, for one.”

  “Suddenly modest, Redd?” Herrick asks.

  I suck in an air-conditioned-loaded breath that makes my lungs flame like rayon on fire. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “My stylist told me you were quite comfortable with nudity,” he says.

  “And how would your stylist know that?” I ask.

  “She heard it from the girl who does your hair.”

  “I’d be comfortable too if I had a body like hers,” Maxine says, squeezing my forearm.

  I snap my arm out of her grasp. Before she can fumble for an apology—because Maxine strikes me as a person who apologizes for everything—I repeat my unanswered question. “Are there cameras in our rooms?”

  “No. That would be an invasion of privacy,” Chase says.

  Good. Then no one caught me freaking out over what I’ve hidden in my bag.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aster

  “Why is everyone watching me?” I ask Gill over breakfast the following morning.

  Gill turns to take in the entire room. “Because you're still the new girl.”

  “How long do you stay the new girl?”

  “Until there's a new girl,” she says matter-of-factly. “Few weeks would be my guess.”

  “Thank God I'll be out in a few days then.”

  She loops one of her brassy dreads around her finger. “Still believe that?”

  “Of course I still believe that!” My temper flares, which attracts more attention. I lower my voice. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

  The tall guard with the potbelly approaches our table. I wrap my feet around the legs of the bench, an old habit left over from school.

  “Inmate Redd, the shrink wants to see you again.”

  Could he speak any louder? “Why?”

  “'Cause she has a crush on you.” He lets out a yip of laughter that reminds me of the sound of an injured dog. When I don't laugh, he clears his throat. “I didn't ask, but I think it's because something's wrong with you. Would you like me to go find out?” He smiles.

  I grumble as I get up.

  “I heard your sister was almost eliminated last night.” I bet he's trying to rile me up.

  “Well, she didn't.”

  “I'm betting Chase Jackson's going to win.”

  “Good for you,” I say.

  We tread down another hallway in silence. The walk seems endless this morning.

  “You really believe your sister has a chance?”

  “Of course!”

  “They do call her Lucky Number Eight, don't they?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I heard the guy-you know, the racist dude-I heard he lawyered up and everything.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Claims the photos were doctored.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “You might get a new roommate soon.”

  My brain attempts to make the connection between doctored photos and new roommates. When it does, I stop walking.

  “Guess who suspect number one is?” He waggles his brows. One of them is slashed by an old scar, which he probably got for being an asshole.

  “Ivy didn't do anything,” I say, starting back up.

  “She's still suspect numero uno.”

  I whirl around on my flip-flops, and my brittle hair-there's no freaking conditioner on this side of hell-flogs my cold cheek. “My sister is good. Real good. She had nothing to do with it.”

  “I didn't come up with it. I saw it on CNN. If you stopped watching that show of yours and started watching the news, you'd have heard it too.”

  “Is everything all right out here?” Robyn asks. She's leaning against the shiny, thick crust of eggshell paint coating her doorframe.

  “Fine,” I say, storming past her into the office. I bet she now thinks I'm irritable on top of being nervous.

  I drop down on the couch-the one facing the window-and fold my arms. Anger is ticking through me. I focus on my breathing to relax. It doesn't work, so I press my fingertips against my temples and think of the song Ivy hums to me when I'm out of sorts. That usually quiets me. When it doesn't, I let my hands fall back against my thighs.

  “Tell me what's going on, Aster.” She's sitting now, legs crossed neatly.

  “The guard was making stupid accusations.”

  “What sort of accusations?” she asks. The beet-colored silk scarf tucked into the collar of her navy blouse makes her look old.

  “That my sister got someone kicked off the show to take his place.”

  “Whose place?”

  I frown. Doesn't she know anything? “That contestant who got disqualified because he was racist.”

  “Tell me more about this contestant.”

  “He attended a white supremacist meeting with swastikas inked on either side of his face.”

  “Do white supremacists frighten you?” she asks.

  “I'm part black, so yeah.”

  “Have you ever been threatened because of your skin color?”

  “I was insulted.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They called us-”

  “Us?”

  “Ivy and me.”

  “I thought it was only you.”

  “I'm a twin,” I say matter-of-factly. How dense is this woman? “They called us brownies,
half-breeds, bounty bars.”

  “How did your sister react to the slander?”

  “She told me not to listen to it.”

  “But you did?”

  “It was hard not too. They were saying it to my face.”

  “But not to Ivy's?”

  “To hers too, but she didn't care, so after a while, they stopped harassing her and just harassed me.”

  “So your sister wasn't treated the same way you were?”

  “People respected her.”

  “And they didn't respect you?”

  “No.”

  She nods, jots something down, then flips to another page in my file. “I asked to see you today because I'd like to talk about your mother.”

  “My mother?”

  “We didn't talk about her yet.”

  “I hate her. She hates me. End of story.”

  Robyn's pen scratches the paper on her lap.

  “What are you writing? That I'm delusional about my feelings for my mother? That she's really a caring person, but I'm not worth caring for?”

  She looks up. “Is that how you feel? That you're not worth caring for?”

  I don't want to answer this woman who keeps asking irritating questions and extrapolating.

  “Aster, did you feel you weren't worth caring for?” she repeats.

  “My sister loves me. Josh too.”

  “Josh?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “And your mother?”

  “My mother's screwed up in the head! I don't give a crap what she thinks of me!” My nostrils flare. I can feel them expand. I stare down the bridge of my nose expecting to see smoke curling out.

  “What do you mean, screwed up in the head?”

  I wrench my gaze back up. “Isn't that in my file?”

  “It is, but I don't care what's in your file. I want to know what's in your mind.”

  “You don't care what's in my file?”

  “That's what I said. Now tell me…why do you think your mother hated you?”

  “She threw stuff at me all the time. She slapped me. She even locked me in the hallway closet once…all day, and then when I peed myself because I couldn't hold it in any longer, she called me horrible things.”

  “Did she ever insult or hurt Ivy?”

  “No. Ivy was her little princess. She taught her how to sew. Never taught me. Never even let me come into the room where she worked. But Ivy could. She could go anywhere, touch anything.” I shove my parched locks behind my ears, but they don't hold and spring right back like metal coils. “I was the odd one out. She told me once she wished I were dead. She hated me. Told me I had screws loose. She was the one with the fucking loose screws. She didn't even know it. I had to schedule an intervention to have her committed. Ivy was pissed, but she didn't see how bad Mom had become. She didn't understand what stage four schizophrenia meant.”

  I wring my hands together, remembering that June morning perfectly. It was hot-stiflingly hot-and it wasn't even eight o'clock. Ivy had just come in from a run and was chugging orange juice from a carton in the fridge when our doorbell rang. She got to the door first. The shocked look on her face when she swung it open and found Mom's shrink flanked by a police officer brandishing a court order will forever stay ingrained in my memory. Ivy hated me then. She hated that I'd gone to see a judge behind her back. She hated that I'd shown a doctor the bruises Mom inflicted on me. She didn't understand how scared I'd become that, one day, one of those bruises would end my life.

  Mom spared my sister because she held so much promise. Ivy was going to save our family, that's what Mom always said. Not me. I was going to be its downfall.

  “It took my sister a long time to forgive me,” I tell Robyn. “Sometimes, I think she hasn't completely forgiven me.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “She said it was in Mom's best interest…that I did the right thing.”

  “So what makes you think she hasn't forgiven you?”

  “I don't know. Little things. Like she goes to visit her behind my back. She took up sewing like her. She left me here.” My cheeks are dry, yet I feel like they should be wet, because my heart's been cracked open like a walnut.

  The therapist scoots to the edge of her chair. The file flops open on her lap, but the pages are blank. She'll probably fill them out the second I leave. “Aster, you told me that you encouraged your sister to go to New York.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. It feels like a knife sliding down my throat. “You know I take care of her?”

  Robyn frowns at the change of subject, but scoots back in her armchair. “No. I don't know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you take care of her?”

  “She doesn't know how to cook, so I cook for her.”

  “How else do you provide?”

  “She's an artist, so I work two jobs.”

  “Is that how you paid your mother's institution bills?”

  “No. The government covers those.”

  Her forehead creases, which makes her eyebrows arch up like furry rainbows. “The government only allocated a small amount of money to your mother.”

  I frown. “Then who's paying for it?”

  “Do you have any other family?”

  “No.”

  “Then my guess is that your sister took care of the bills.”

  “My sister? But she's never made a dime!”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Am I sure? “Of course!” But I'm not. How was Ivy making money? Was she selling her quilts? Wouldn't she have told me if she were? Oh, God, no… My sister couldn't have been involved with Troy Mann, could she?

  “Aster? Are you all right?”

  “I'd like to talk to Officer Joshua Cooper,” I say.

  “What would you like to talk to him about?”

  “Something. Can you get in contact with him?”

  “I can ask the warden if he can arrange something.” After a few quiet minutes, she stands. “I would like to schedule another session tomorrow. Same time?”

  “Will you contact Officer Cooper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then okay. I'll be here tomorrow.” I stand to leave. “We're done, right?”

  She nods, so I start toward the frosted glass door. As I pull it open, I hear her call out, “We made good progress today.”

  I agree. Finding out my sister was making money behind my back is progress.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ivy

  I feel like a zombie this morning. I’m so tired that I nearly stride right into a wall of glass. Thankfully, Maxine warns me right before I face-plant. Three glass cubes have been erected in the makeup wing, similar to the ones they’d used for the performance art test. Inside each, they’ve set up a long glass desk and three chairs. I suspect it’s for today’s challenge.

  As we’re primped and dressed, my attention wanders to the other contestants and lingers on Chase. Even though the tents are fabric and fabric absorbs noise, I heard him move around his room last night. I even saw light flicker on and off. His makeup artist is applying concealer to his face, which leads me to believe the shadows underneath his eyes rival mine. What could keep Chase Jackson awake? I doubt it’s stress. Even if he loses, it won’t change much to his gilded life. I bet his parents would still be proud of him. His parents. Are they in the audience? Chase’s gaze lands on mine, so I snap my attention to my reflection in the mirror.

  Amy’s humming to herself as she teases my hair and pins it into an elaborate half-up, half-down ’do. And Leila’s her usual bright self—not. She snaps my chin up and pokes a black pencil into my lower lash line. I bite my lip and blink. I’d ask her to be more gentle were I not terrified she’d be even less so. Her kohl-smeared gaze shifts from one side of my face to the other to inspect her handiwork. When she puckers her lips, I brace myself for more pain.

  Ten minutes later, I’m released from my torture chair and stuffed into a sleeveless, knee-length dress wit
h a beaded collar. The high-heeled sandals I have to wear will give me blisters. The only positive aspect of the strappy heels is that they probably signify I won’t be racing around the museum like some headless chicken.

  Dominic checks in on us like he does each morning before we have breakfast. But this morning, it isn’t to make sure we’re ready. “Ivy, a word.” He gestures to a glass cube.

  The others all glance our way, but leave for breakfast. Dominic shuts the door behind us.

  “Our school was built on an honor code, which every student swears allegiance to the day they enroll. Inter se credimus. Do you know what it means?”

  I feel heart palpitations in my jaw. Did Chase tell him he gave me a hint yesterday? “I’m guessing something about giving credit,” I say, although I know that’s not it.

  I try to block out the curious gazes of the crew members filming us while Dominic jiggles his head left to right.

  “Not exactly. It means, In each other we trust. Now, I hate myself for having to ask this…” He’s dropped his voice although I doubt anyone can hear us. “I wouldn’t even bring this up, but it’s all over the news.” Despite the layer of foundation on his cheeks, Dominic’s face looks like a crumpled sepia photograph.

  My entire body pulses. Even my eyes have trouble focusing. I see everything double. “What’s on the news?”

  “That you might’ve had a hand in eliminating the former eighth contestant.”

  All at once, relief and astonishment catapult through me. The two emotions are so different that they make my body go still and throb more fiercely. “I had nothing to do with his elimination.”

  “You don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that. I’ll have you know, I didn’t believe it for a second.” He lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it, then rubs it a little, then squeezes it again. “I’ll prepare the press release and we’ll go over it before you face the”—he suddenly looks around and releases my shoulder—“cameras. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And with Brook. Yesterday. During the test. Someone told us they saw you talking.”

  Someone. I grunt. I bet that someone is Chase. For a flimsy second, I’m tempted to tell him about the latter’s unwelcomed clue, to have him disqualified—but then I come to my senses. I would be too. I seal my lips shut and add that information to the long list of secrets I have bottled up. If only I could just get rid of them all, throw them into some mental well and watch them sink.