Set Me Free

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Set Me Free Page 12

by London Setterby


  “Emily was bored, so she did yours earlier.”

  I spritzed table seven with disinfectant again and went back to scrubbing at a stubborn stain. The bus boy walked off, shaking his head, as Andy came out of the kitchen, shrugging on his bright red parka.

  “There you are,” he said. “Heading back to the house?”

  “Not yet. I have an errand to run.”

  “At eleven at night?”

  “Yeah, course.” I forced a smile. “When do you do your errands?”

  He laughed. “All right, whatever you say. Oh, by the way,” he added, as he zipped up his coat, “what did Owen want earlier?”

  “Nothing,” I said, my heart aching. “I just…forgot something. At his mom’s shop.”

  He nodded, but he still looked curious. Then again, Andy always looked curious.

  I thought about asking him about Owen—the way everyone here had stared at him, what he might have wanted to tell me, why he’d acted like a jerk even though he could see I was upset—but I couldn’t bear to talk about my love life with my supervisor, even one as cool as Andy. I’d have to ask Kaye later. She was out of town for a couple of days, visiting friends from college in Portland. For now, I had no one I could truly talk to.

  So, after Andy left, I did what I’d always done in Florida when I was desperately lonely: I went to the cemetery.

  I parked on Church Street. The wrought-iron fence surrounding the graveyard was locked, but since it only came up to my shins, it didn’t slow me down.

  Over the fence, the darkness was so thick it was almost tangible. But the silence was what I noticed most. Cities are never silent: there is the distant swell of traffic, the purr of machinery, the hum of streetlights. There were no cars here, not even any insects or birds, just the sound of my footsteps crumpling the frozen grass, and the dull thump of my heartbeat.

  I kept walking until I spotted a glimmer of white through the pine boughs. Moonlight seeped down her wings, her hood, the curls surrounding her face and neck, catching on the crystals in the stone until she shimmered like the angel she was.

  A fresh bunch of white lilies, tied with a single ribbon, lay in the frozen grass. I stood next to the marble bench in front of her pedestal and looked at them for a long time.

  “Your work is so colorful, I can’t imagine you liking white flowers,” I said finally. “You’d think Owen would know that. But I suppose you must’ve had a lot of admirers.”

  Her marble eyes were closed, her eyelashes lightly etched into the stone.

  “Your artwork is so fearless,” I told her. “Like it never occurred to you that you couldn’t do exactly what you wanted to do.”

  I pulled my phone out of my purse, glancing down at its solemn black face.

  Behind me, someone coughed—the sound whip-cracked through the silent graveyard. I spun around, my heart racing.

  A man stood at the edge of the clearing, holding a pot of carnations. I’d gotten used to knowing everyone in town, but I’d never seen him before. He looked like a football player gone slightly to seed, his body thicker and his hair thinner now, but still handsome enough, despite his annoyed expression.

  “You scared me,” I managed, so relieved he wasn’t Rhys I could hardly think.

  He shrugged. “Serves you right, treating a graveyard like a goddamn tourist attraction. I don’t know what we have to do to keep you people out of here.”

  “I am not a tourist,” I snapped.

  “College student then.”

  “I live here,” I insisted. “I work at the Widow’s Walk.”

  He grunted. “Easties.”

  “Whatever,” I said irritably. “I have just as much right to be here as you do.” I sighed, annoyed at myself for snapping at someone who was clearly here to grieve. “Let’s start over. I’m Miranda.”

  “Jonas Whittaker,” he replied, sounding resigned.

  I glanced again at the pot of carnations in his hands. The moonlight shone off something on his left hand—a wedding band. I couldn’t help wondering why a married man would be bringing flowers to Suzanna White in the middle of the night—until suddenly it hit me. “You’re Jonas Whittaker. You were her—”

  “Boyfriend,” he interrupted grimly. “Before she dumped me for that dirtbag.”

  Dirtbag? Did he mean—? “Owen? She broke up with you for him?”

  “Yes. She did. Now if you don’t mind…” He gestured at Suzanna’s statue with his pot of carnations.

  “Oh. Right. Okay.” I took a few steps towards the trees, until I thought of something else. “Don’t you have one of her self-portraits?”

  His frown turned even more guarded. “How do you know about that?”

  “Just…something I heard around town.”

  He made a dismissive sound. “Shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Do you have one, or don’t you?”

  “I have her only self-portrait,” he said, drawing himself up to his full, considerable height. “I have the only one she ever did. It’s of me and her, together. And it’s not for public viewing,” he added, enunciating each syllable.

  We glared at each other. I thought about telling him that I’d seen another one of her self-portraits, and it belonged to the man she had dumped him for. But I looked at the lines on his face, the ring on his hand, and said nothing.

  Chapter 15

  The next day, I went back to the graveyard. This time, I brought my easel and set it up in the frozen grass in front of Suzanna’s statue. In the light from the setting sun, she glowed gold.

  I sketched her directly onto the primed canvas, then daubed paints onto my palette, mixing up a deep green. I filled in the space all around her, slowly adding texture to create a background of pine trees. I painted her pedestal next. At its base, I included the pot of carnations Jonas Whittaker had left her last night and, of course, the white lilies.

  Her long hooded cloak I kept in white, as if it were still made of stone. But instead of cold ivory curls beneath it, I painted flaming red spirals. Her face I did last, because it was the most important and also the most difficult. I held her self-portrait for Owen in my mind—her tempestuous mouth, her clear hazel eyes—as if I could combine the way she saw herself with the way everyone else saw her.

  Eventually, the sky darkened, and it became harder and harder to see her, especially her eyes. I set my paintbrush down, stretching my shoulders and sighing. I wished I could see the self-portrait she had done for Jonas Whittaker. There was still so much I didn’t know.

  Still…it wasn’t a bad painting, and I felt a little better—calmer, stronger, more focused.

  “Excuse me!”

  An old woman hurried towards me through the pine trees.

  “I would like to know what you think you’re doing,” she said crisply. “This is not an art studio, young lady!”

  She had a British accent, reminding me instantly of my dad. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. Sorry. I’m leaving now, anyway.” I started packing up my paints. “What part of England are you from?”

  She blinked at me. “Oh, er, Buckinghamshire.”

  “I have a cousin who lives in Aylesbury.”

  “Do you,” she said, still looking a bit taken aback. “I grew up in South Buckinghamshire, not far from London.”

  “I love London. My dad teaches at university there.”

  “London is a bit too busy for me, I’m afraid.” She toyed with the beaded necklaces falling to her waist. “I’ve always said it is a shame the British Museum has to be in the thick of things like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I like it. But I’ll do anything for art, obviously,” I added, with a nod towards my easel.

  “May I?”

  “Sure.” I walked around the bench to make room for her. She crossed the grass, her long dress flowing around her, and stood in front of my painting with her back to me. Her silver hair crowned a column of black.

  “Good heavens,” she said.

  “
What is it?” It wasn’t that bad, surely?

  “I don’t understand,” she said softly. “Did you know Suzanna White? I have never seen you in town before.”

  “I didn’t know her,” I said. “I’ve only been here for a few months, but I hear so many things about her, and…I know it’s not quite right.”

  The old woman glanced over her shoulder at me with a sharp raise of her eyebrow. “It’s extraordinary.”

  “It…what?” I tugged on my ear as if I’d heard her wrong. “You like it?”

  “I’m the curator at the Graveside Gallery,” she said. “I have many of Suzanna’s works. I knew her fairly well, I think. As well, perhaps, as anyone knew her. This painting is almost like…seeing her again. Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it, you see.”

  She pulled a handkerchief from one long, black sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I stepped towards her, wanting to put my arms around her. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

  “No, no, don’t apologize. It’s nice to see her again, in a way, especially in a painting by one of her peers.”

  “I’m not her peer!” I said, shocked. “Not that I don’t appreciate the compliment—”

  The old woman waved her handkerchief dismissively. “What is your name? Are you a student at Bellisle Art College? One of Sam’s pupils, perhaps?”

  I swallowed. “My name is Miranda… I’m a waitress.” At her withering stare, I added, “At the Widow’s Walk? It’s a bar, downtown…?”

  “I know what it is,” she snapped. “Good heavens. Why aren’t you in art school?”

  I shrugged.

  “You should fix that at once.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mrs. Gautier.”

  It took me a second to realize she was introducing herself. I offered her my hand, which she took after a moment of hesitation. Her skin was cool and dry. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gautier.”

  “If you would like to display it when it’s finished, I would very much like to have it at the Graveside.”

  My jaw dropped. Display something of mine? Here, in town?

  “I would like to put it next to Miss White’s exhibition,” she added, half to herself. “I have just the space for it. Let me know, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Thank you.” At least I could be fairly sure that Mrs. Gautier, unlike James Emory, wasn’t offering to display my art just to chat me up. “You have a whole exhibit of her work?”

  “Oh, yes, I have a very thorough collection. She gave me quite a few to display while she was alive, and…afterwards, her parents lent me some, as well.”

  “Her parents? Do they still live in Fall Island?”

  “I’m afraid they moved away after the tragedy.” Mrs. Gautier glanced at my painting again, a wistful frown creasing her forehead. “I am sorry I disturbed you. Do think about what I said.”

  “I will. Thank you.” I smiled at her, but something about how she had said “the tragedy” didn’t feel right.

  In a flutter of black fabric and clinking necklaces, she began to walk back towards the pine trees.

  “Mrs. Gautier?”

  She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

  “How did Suzanna die?”

  “You don’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “I hate to discuss it,” she admitted. “It is truly a horrific story.”

  “Please.”

  Her gaze wobbled to my painting, then to Suzanna’s statue. For a long moment, we stood in silence, across the clearing from each other.

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever know what happened that night,” Mrs. Gautier murmured. “But they said she was murdered.”

  “Murdered!” The word came out choked. “I had thought—sickness. I thought that was why no one talked about it.”

  Mrs. Gautier was shaking her head. “They said her boyfriend murdered her in cold blood. Drowned her, I’m afraid, near East Beach.”

  My legs gave way. I dropped onto the bench. Every cell in my body was screaming. “Her boyfriend?”

  “That’s right. He still lives here, though he keeps to himself. Her boyfriend, Owen Larsen.”

  Chapter 16

  I sat on the bench, numb and speechless, while Mrs. Gautier made an awkward goodbye and said something about having my painting at the Graveside. I hardly heard her. My body and soul split apart, shattered, particles cascading across the universe.

  It couldn’t be true. Owen would never hurt anyone.

  I thought about the way he’d grabbed Scott by the throat after the fire at the Lodge, and how unbearably cold he’d been to me yesterday at the Widow’s Walk, even though he could tell I was upset.

  I’d felt a pull towards him since practically the first moment I’d met him, as if I’d known him in another life. But the truth was that it had only been a couple of weeks. And I was the same stupid girl who’d moved to Connecticut with Rhys after only a month.

  I hugged my knees to my chest and pressed my face to the denim of my jeans. What kind of man kept his dead girlfriend’s self-portrait locked in his spare room?

  He had promised to tell me everything, but all he had told me was that he and Suzanna had dated. He had let me believe that the town didn’t like him because he’d tried to have Suzanna all to himself. He’d let me feel sorry for him—and all the while, he’d been keeping this from me. That he’d been accused of killing her—Beloved By All.

  I swept my hair back from my forehead, trembling. Could this possibly have been what he’d wanted to tell me—at the Widow’s Walk, of all places, on the morning after?

  How could it be? There had to be something else—some other secret, dividing him from the town. Some other explanation for Suze’s death.

  Slowly, clumsily, as if I were underwater, I turned on my phone and dialed Owen’s number.

  It rang and rang while I tried not to think about what I was going to say.

  Then, horribly, it went to voicemail.

  I listened to Owen’s deep, even voice asking me to leave him a message, and wanted to cry.

  It beeped.

  “Hi. It’s Miranda.” My voice cracked. “If you have a moment…I would like to know what you were going to tell me yesterday. I just heard something about…Suzanna…and I…”

  My face burning, I hung up. Of course I had to go all stiff and proper and British.

  Memories circled me like vultures: his hands on my skin, his scent, his gentle laugh.

  Feverishly, I stood up and grabbed my paints. I had to know more. I had to know everything.

  I found my housemates sitting around a campfire in the backyard, making s’mores and drinking Schlitz. Kaye had come back home from Portland while I was out, and I’d never been more relieved and grateful to see her.

  “There you are!” Kaye glanced up from the marshmallow she was toasting to smile at me.

  Andy handed me a toasting stick of my own. “More errands?” He winked.

  I meant to respond with a joke, but the words got lost. I sank into one of the plastic lawn chairs in between Kaye and Andy, holding the stick across my lap. “Can I ask you guys something?”

  Kaye and Andy both looked at me, Kaye’s wide smile faltering and Andy’s pierced eyebrow arching. On the other side of the campfire, Scott frowned into the depths of his beer can.

  I took a shaky breath. “I need to know about Suzanna White. I need to know how she died. If it’s true…about Owen.”

  The fire popped and hissed. In the thick forest behind our small backyard, insects chirped. Kaye and Andy exchanged one of their glances that spoke volumes without actually saying a word.

  Scott crushed his beer can in his fist. He stared at me, his dark eyes intense. “It’s true, Miranda.”

  Before I could react, Andy rolled his eyes. “Scott, seriously…”

  “I am fucking serious,” Scott snapped, pointing the ruined can at Andy. “I wanted to tell her as soon as she got here. I don’t
care if she’s not staying. Everybody needs to know about that guy, and what he did.” On the last word, Scott’s voice hitched.

  “Wait,” I said, trembling. “Which is it?”

  “He was charged with her murder,” Kaye said softly. “But he was acquitted. Eventually. It took almost two years. There was a mistrial, and…it was complicated.”

  “But if he was acquitted…doesn’t that mean he’s innocent?”

  “No,” Scott spat. “All that means is that the jury didn’t convict him, even though they should have. It does not mean he’s innocent.”

  Suddenly, everything made sense: the curious, nervous stares from almost everyone in town, the way Violet and Scott had accused him of setting fire to Suzanna’s paintings in the Artist’s Lodge, even the death threats. Every single person on Fall Island thought Owen had murdered Suzanna and gotten away with it. They thought a killer lived among them, keeping to himself, only ever visible when he was walking his mom’s huge dogs.

  “I’m sorry, Miranda.” Kaye bit her lip. “We talked about whether we should tell you, but we didn’t know how long you’d be staying here, and… It’s so hard to know how people will react. Some people just can’t stop talking about it. Some of the tourists come here to gawk at us, or because they think of themselves as amateur sleuths.”

  I didn’t know what to say to her. They should have told me. They should have believed me when I said I was going to stay.

  “Then, even though he was acquitted…you all think he did it.” My voice came out small and wretched.

  Kaye’s expression softened. “We don’t want to believe it about him, M., but you have to understand, it looked really bad. There were other suspects at first, but they all had solid alibis. Owen didn’t. He didn’t even really try. He just said he was sitting at home, practicing the cello—”

  “But he did used to play the cello—”

  “And he had a motive,” Kaye insisted. “Something no one else had. Look, Suzanna was incredibly popular. Everyone loved her. She had lived here her whole life, on the south side of the island. Her dad was a lobster fisherman and her mom was an artist. If you could take the hopes and dreams of a whole island and make it into one person, that was her.”

 

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