by Skylar Finn
“The ugliness is what makes it beautiful,” he explained. “There is a bathroom on the other side where you may change.” He was remarkably less creepy than I expected him to be.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the dress and backing out of the alcove as he huddled over his tripod. “Be right back.”
Just as I reached the door to the bathroom, Cameron appeared at the fire escape, eyes wide. I unlatched the window and held up five fingers, mouthing five minutes. There was no way Cristo wouldn’t hear him if he came in now. He gave a determined little nod and I entered the bathroom.
I stared at the dress, mystified. How did I even get into it? I couldn’t find a zipper anywhere. I rummaged frantically through the layers of taffeta and chiffon.
“That’s the front,” said Bea, appearing on the sink. She’d disappeared between the school and the walk to Cristo’s. I was so distracted by my potential looming demise that I hadn’t noticed. “The zipper’s in the back. I’ve worn that one before.”
“I thought you said he had everyone pose nude?” I mumbled, flipping the dress over. Buried within its hideous folds was a zipper.
“I just made that up to mess with you,” she admitted. “I figured having never been in a studio environment, you wouldn’t be comfortable with the human form. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if Tamsin posed nude for him.” She smirked, then frowned, exasperated, as she watched me. “Have you ever operated a dress before?”
“Quiet!” I succeeded in wrestling the dress open and pulled it on over my tank top and shorts. It didn’t quite zip up all the way, but the more layers between Cristo and me, the better.
“Aren’t you going to change?” she asked, watching me like I was crazy.
“No.” I looked at myself in the round gold mirror hanging from a nail over the sink. “This will do.”
“Are you sure about that?” queried Bea.
“Listen,” I said, swatting down the taffeta tulle skirt, which inhibited my movements considerably. “I’ve had about enough of you. Can you just be quiet while I distract him?”
“I guess,” she said dubiously. “Are you sure you’re up for the job?”
I ignored this last question and made my way out of the bathroom. When Cameron saw me through the window, he gasped and then made a face as if I was dressed in a dead raccoon pelt. What is that? he mouthed through the glass. I shrugged as I penguin-waddled past the window. The dress was extremely tight, let alone with my clothes on underneath it.
“Ah! Magnificent!” Cristo exclaimed when he saw me. Whatever my reservations about my hideous costume were not ones he shared. “I am going to turn this fan on so that the dress will blow. But do not fear what it does to your hair, as no one will see your head, anyway.” He positioned an industrial fan near me and switched it on. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I knew the sound would muffle Cameron’s entrance. Bea floated away to see what he was up to.
I moved away from the fan so I could open my eyes slightly as Cristo fiddled with his tripod. He switched on a large light above me with a tiny remote and I immediately began to sweat. I felt like I was inside a boiler. The loft was hot, the light was hot, and the fan did little more than blow hot air onto me in the hideous, tight, and scratchy dress. Even if he wasn’t a murderer, he was definitely a sadist.
Within minutes, I felt dizzy. I wondered what Cameron was doing and if he’d turned anything up yet. I wasn’t sure how long I could maintain. The dress and the heat were suffocating, the rhythmic click of Cristo’s camera doing nothing to soothe my jangled nerves. Just when I thought I might pass out for sure, Bea appeared behind Cristo and waved her arms frantically over her head. I squinted at her with dry eyes and she seemed to remember that Cristo couldn’t hear her.
“Hey, your friend just stole a bunch of pictures from Cristo’s darkroom and ran back out the fire escape,” she said.
I breathed a sigh of relief, sagging in the dress.
“Ah, how perfect your resignation feels to me right now,” said Cristo, beaming.
“Actually, Cristo, I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop for now,” I said. “This heat is insufferable and I’m getting dehydrated.”
Cristo looked aghast. “My word! But I did not even offer you water! How dreadful of me.” He disappeared, presumably to his kitchen. I wiggled out of the dress and hightailed it to the front door just as Cristo appeared with a bottle of water and pressed it on me.
“How kind of you,” I said. “I don’t know how the heat got the better of me. So sorry I wasted my time. I mean, so sorry I wasted your time.”
“No, the photographs I took will be lovely, I’m sure,” he insisted. I wasn’t sure if he was complimenting me or himself. “I will make many copies for you. Perhaps you can return? Maybe this weekend?”
“I’d love to,” I said.
“Wonderful,” he said. “I will get your information from Tamsin.”
“Sounds great, bye,” I said all in one breath as I turned to run down the hallway. I was hardly subtle, but now that Cameron had proof of Cristo’s wrongdoing, I wasn’t going to waste a second escaping his lair.
At the bottom of the stairs, I burst through the side door and into an alley, chucking the water he gave me into a trash can. I really was thirsty, but I wasn’t about to drink anything Cristo had offered me, sealed or unsealed.
Cameron appeared at the end of the alley as I ran to the end, breathless and sweaty. “Girl! There you are. I was about to call the ATF.”
“The ATF?”
“FBI, Coast Guard, Peace Corps, whatever. I can’t believe you went in there with that maniac. And that dress! My God. That thing was apocalyptic. What did you do?”
“Stood in front of a high-powered fan and sweated.”
“Sounds like Cristo is quite the artiste,” he said sarcastically. He waved the sheaf of papers in his hand. “I don’t know what I got, but I snuck into his darkroom and grabbed a bunch of photos off the line. Hopefully I got something.”
“You didn’t look at them first?” I asked. “What if they’re just pictures of his house plant or something?”
“Are you insane? I wasn’t going to stand around examining each of them in detail,” he said. “You keep forgetting we were in the home of a possible murderer. Why you think we should have spent even longer there than we already did--”
“I know, I know,” I said. “We never should have gone up there in the first place. But Cameron, if you got evidence in his darkroom, this could stop him! It will all have been worth it.”
He glanced around, as if nervous Cristo would swoop down from the sky at any moment and seize us in his talons. “The Lyft just got here,” he said. “Let’s get out of here so we can look at them someplace safe.”
He led me to the curb where a silver Honda was idling. “Although I am a little dubious, admittedly: if Cristo really is up to no good, then why would he document it?” He opened the back door and I slid in, Cameron getting in after me. “Wouldn’t he be doing everything in his power to conceal his crimes and misdemeanors?”
“Serial killers always have to brag about their nefarious actions,” I explained, reaching for the photographs. Cameron handed them to me. “In addition to his trophy hearts, I bet he also wants to document his heinous crimes so he can become famous after he gets arrested. The art world is just perverse enough to celebrate a serial killer.”
The Lyft driver was looking at me oddly in the mirror. I glared at him and he quickly looked away.
I flipped through the photographs, Cameron leaning over my shoulder. The first several were of a Great Dane, followed by a garden of sunflowers. I frowned. Hardly conclusive evidence that Cristo was evil.
“Stunning composition,” a voice murmured from the passenger seat. I glanced up and almost screamed. I realized it was just Bea, craning her ghostly neck into the backseat to see the photos.
“What? What is it?” Cameron frantically searched the photo, thinking I saw something. “Is there a body in the gard
en?”
“No, it’s just Bea.” I flipped to the next photo, and it was Bea. Like the photograph of Tamsin, she was seated in Cristo’s class, huddled over her notebook, as if Cristo had taken the photograph while he was at his desk.
“Ooooh, is that of me?” She leaned forward, her expression misting over. “I didn’t even realize he’d taken that!”
I stared at her, incredulous. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the already curious driver, so I refrained from pointing out this was the person who had potentially murdered her. I flipped to the next photo: Tamsin. Tamsin again. Three in a row, all of Tamsin. She was never facing the camera, but on her way out of the classroom, walking up the street with her back to the photographer, and paying for her groceries at the store.
“Was he following her?” asked Cameron, appalled.
“I don’t think the question is, was he following her,” I corrected him. “I think the question is: Is he still following her? I think she’s his next target.”
I went to stack the photos neatly when my thumbnail caught on a final print, stuck to the back of the photo of Tamsin at the grocery store. I flipped it over, expecting to see another shot of Tamsin, and froze with shock.
It was Peter.
25
Intervention
I stared uncomprehendingly at the picture in my hand. Peter? Why Peter? Then I remembered what Suki said: it wasn’t enough to find just any heart; the heart had to be pure. Of course Peter’s fit the bill: he was altruistic, ethical, and brimming with integrity. And he had wandered right into Cristo’s crosshairs by writing about the murders.
“What does Cristo want with Peter?” asked Cameron in shock, looking over my shoulder at the picture and echoing my sentiment.
“I guess he has a good heart.” I let the photograph flutter to my lap, unable to look at it anymore. “I was so sure he was after Tamsin.”
“It seemed the obvious conclusion to draw,” agreed Cameron.
I picked up my phone. We’d just left Cristo’s moments ago, so I could be relatively certain he hadn’t gone after Peter yet, unless he was capable of teleportation. But who knew what Father Death was capable of?
Peter answered on the first ring. “Hey, what’s up?” he said curiously.
“Where are you?” I asked. “Are you someplace safe?”
“Yeah, I came home for lunch,” he said. “I’m eating a sandwich. What’s going on?”
“I think I know who the murderer is,” I said. Again, the Lyft driver’s eyes flicked toward the backseat. His expression looked like that of someone who was strongly considering screeching over to the curb and forcibly ejecting us. Cameron leaned over the seat with his phone. “I’m just going to update the address,” he said apologetically to the driver.
“Wait, what?” It sounded like Peter stopped, mid-chew. “How did you--”
“Don’t open the door for anyone,” I said. “Make sure the doors and windows are locked. I just came from Cristo’s, and I think you’re his next target.”
Peter met me at the door, his sandwich lying half-eaten and forgotten on the kitchen counter. I threw my arms around him. Even though mere minutes had passed since we’d gotten off the phone, I was still somehow worried I’d arrive upstairs to find that he’d been murdered in the time it took me to sprint from the Lyft to the elevator and down the hall.
“What were you saying about Cristo?” he asked me, glancing down at his empty hand for his sandwich. He looked behind him at the counter, saw it, picked it up, and resumed eating it. I felt the gesture was a little more cavalier than circumstances called for, but I guess he was hungry.
“I think Cristo is behind these disappearances,” I said, waving the photographs Cameron had stolen from Cristo’s darkroom. Cameron had gone back to the shop, explaining that in between our excursions to Suki’s and our budding amateur sleuthing that he’d been neglecting his business and wanted to make sure it hadn’t burned down.
“I think he’s the one stealing these hearts,” I said. “I think he’s the murderer. And I think--no, I’m sure--that he’s coming after you next. Every picture we found in his apartment is either of one of the victims, or his intended victims. Including you.”
Peter’s hand froze mid-reach for the pictures. He stared at me. “You were in his apartment?”
“Tamsin wouldn’t believe me,” I said, impatiently shoving the pictures under his nose. “I had to find proof! She thinks she’s in love with him.”
Peter accepted the pictures but continued to look at me in shock. “I can’t believe you went there,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have told you last night to make sure Tamsin stayed away from him, but I never imagined you would--” He went and sat down on the couch as if standing had become too much. The sandwich, again forgotten, lay forlornly on the counter.
“Wait, what?” I said, following him to the couch. “Why?”
“The tip we got,” he explained. “When I went out last night, for the story--it was about Cristo. Something about him running a scam in another city where he pretended to be an artist--a spoken word poet, at the time--under a different name and acquiring a bevy of devoted followers whom he then scammed out of thousands of dollars.”
“Money?” I said, confused. “But he’s a murderer.”
“It doesn’t quite line up,” he admitted. “But the fact remains that he’s a fraud and not who he claims to be. He has a known past of criminal behavior, and it’s possible that he’s graduated from conning people to murdering them. Either way, neither of you should be anywhere near him, let alone sneaking into his home and stealing evidence. You know the police can’t use this, right?”
“I’m aware of that, Peter.” I’d risked my life to uncover evidence that Cristo was up to no good, and Peter was acting like I was the one who messed up. “I thought it would be enough to prove to you that your life was in serious danger, and someone in a position of authority needs to take a harder look at Cristo.”
He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I know, I get it, I’m sorry. I know that you acted to protect Tamsin, and ultimately me, but the guy’s a felon and maybe a murderer. I hate that you went into his apartment and risked your life needlessly thinking you had to prove something to Tamsin or to me, especially when I already knew he was up to no good. I just didn’t tell you in time.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “And while I can’t believe Tamsin is being this obtuse, it’s also understandable. This guy is a mastermind. He’s a professional at getting women to fall under his spell so he can take advantage of them.”
At the words under his spell, a powerful wave of trepidation swept over me. It was so much worse than that. I’d lost track of the number of times I’d wished I could share the truth with Peter, and now was no exception.
Granted, there were several inconsistencies that didn’t quite dovetail with what we’d respectively discovered about Cristo. If he was Father Death, presumably an ageless and all-powerful entity, what had he been doing fleecing unsuspecting women while pretending to be a spoken word poet? Why did he only just start looking for hearts for the ritual now? Was he a murderer, a con man, or both?
“I know you’re worried, Sam,” Peter was saying. “I’m worried, too. For me, for us, for everyone. But please promise me you won’t go near Cristo or his place. I’m really afraid he might do something to you. Or to Tamsin.”
“Are you planning to go near Cristo?” I asked. “For your story?” I knew Peter well enough to know that he probably pictured himself getting a Pulitzer for catching a murderer. There was almost certainly an element of excitement in it for him, even knowing that Cristo was aware Peter was investigating him.
I could sense him struggling between being honest and telling me what I wanted to hear. Clearly, he had no intention of quitting the story, not when he was this close. It was also hypocritical of him to tell me to stay far away from Cristo if he was planning on lurking around Cristo’s fire escape himself lat
er on that evening. I felt certain then that it was Peter’s heart Cristo was after. Honesty, determination, and a hatred of hypocrisy: typical Peter.
“I won’t do anything to put myself at risk,” he said finally, which was far from a definite no. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know the lines to draw between getting the truth and getting killed. Do you trust me?”
It was the second time he’d asked me this. My trust issues were really being tested this summer.
“Yes,” I said reluctantly. I knew it meant Peter would continue chasing the story regardless of the potential consequences. But what could I do? I couldn’t control him. I couldn’t live his life for him and make the decisions I thought he should make. It made me want to get up and run out the door. I hated feeling this helpless. Something terrible could easily happen to him, and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Sam?” He looked at me, concerned. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “I’m not thinking about anything.”
Peter was reluctant to let me out of his sight, just as certain I’d go straight back to investigating Cristo as I was that he planned to do the same. But I had a much larger priority than that.
“I have to get to Tamsin,” I said. “Before she ‘drops off’ another project at his place, or goes on another pseudo-date with him. She’s not answering her phone, so I’m just going to have to bang on her door until she answers and make her see reason.”
Peter volunteered to go with me. He’d known Tamsin much longer than I had from Mount Hazel and thought his opinion might carry some weight. I thought he was being overly optimistic, but there was a far less chance she’d slam the door in Peter’s face than she would in mine. Peter, as far as I knew, hadn’t done anything to offend her. It was me she couldn’t stand.
I was on the brink of blasting Tamsin’s door open with magic by the time we got there. I wasn’t sure how exactly I would go about that but felt certain that if I wanted to, I could. I wasn’t sure how I planned to explain this to Peter. I guess maybe I could pretend I had an unexplained ability to kick down doors.
