Ella paused. “This is how you imagined she would have looked if she’d lived, right?”
Aria fiddled with a piece of packing tape. Ella had been in the hospital room the first time they’d protested to Fuji that Ali had been part of Nick’s attack, and she’d also heard Fuji shoot down the theory. It was easier for her family to believe that Aria had imagined seeing Ali instead of considering that the crazy girl was at large.
Aria’s gaze moved to Ali’s haunting eyes in the painting. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to capture so precisely Ali’s furious, insane, and unraveled expression—it was as if something demonic had taken hold of her brush. Why had a highbrow art collector in New York City been so captivated by it? Aria had Googled John Carruthers last night; there were numerous pictures of him attending charity events at the Met, the Whitney, and the MoMA. A New York Times profile said that he and his family lived in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street with views of Central Park. His two young daughters, Beverly and Becca, had the FAO Schwarz life-size piano from Big and an authentic Keith Haring mural in their playroom. Hopefully he would hang Ali’s face somewhere the girls would never see it.
And what about Ali? Surely she’d found out that a painting of her face had sold; the deal had even gotten a mention on the Art Now blog. That worried Aria a little. Was Ali totally pissed off that Aria was profiting—hugely—off her image? Should Aria pull out of the transaction?
Stop worrying, she told herself as she helped Ella wrap the rest of the painting. She couldn’t let Ali run her life.
Ella whistled for the courier, who was waiting in the main gallery space, to haul it to the truck. “So,” she said, turning to Aria after he left, “what are you going to do with all that money?”
Aria took a deep breath. When she’d come to work this morning, her mom had announced that the money had been wired into the gallery’s account; in a few days, it would be in her bank account, minus a small gallery fee. “Give you money for a new car so we don’t have to drive that Subaru anymore, for one thing,” she said with a chuckle.
Ella scowled. “I can take care of myself, honey. I say you use it for college.”
It was probably the right thing to do. But the only schools Aria was interested in were art schools—and did Aria need art school if she was already selling paintings? “Or I could put it toward an apartment in New York,” she suggested, giving her mom that sweet, pleading smile that always seemed to work.
Ella seemed skeptical. She raised a finger, ready to probably make a point about how college was invaluable and if she let too much time lapse after high school, she might never go. But then a tall, young guy in a slightly rumpled plaid shirt and olive-green skinny pants appeared in the doorway. He carried a leather bag on his shoulder and had a pair of Ray-Bans propped on his head, and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.
“Um, hello?” the guy said in a sonorous, not-too-high but not-too-deep voice. “Are you Aria Montgomery?”
“Yes . . . ,” Aria said cautiously, standing up straighter.
The guy stuck out his hand. “I’m, um, Harrison Miller from Fire and Funnel. It’s an art blog that—”
“I know it!” Aria interrupted, her eyes wide. She was a frequent visitor of Fire and Funnel, a Philadelphia-based indie art site, and was impressed by the blogger’s keen eye and intuition—he seemed to know what was going to be hot months before it hit the mainstream. She hadn’t known the blogger was so young.
Harrison smiled. “Well, cool. Anyway, I’d like to do a piece on you and your artwork. Do you have a sec to chat?”
Aria tried not to gasp. Ella thrust out her hand. “I’m her mother, Ella Montgomery—and I’m the assistant director at this gallery.” She used the brand-new title her boss, Jim, had given her yesterday. “I was the one who facilitated the sale of Aria’s painting.”
“Good to meet you.” Harrison looked uncomfortable. “So . . . is it okay if I talk to Aria alone? I’ll try to put the gallery in the story if I can, though.”
“My little girl is growing up!” Ella crooned, pretending to wipe away a tear. Then she waltzed out of the room. “Of course you can talk to Aria. Take all the time you need.”
Then she shut the door so swiftly the Monet calendar hanging on the back rose in the air before settling softly back down. Aria turned back to Harrison. He smiled at her, then perched on a small, cluttered table in the corner and rummaged through his leather bag. “I heard about the purchase of your painting on Art Now yesterday. It’s a huge deal.”