But this isn’t a police interrogation.
“She’s giving you terrible legal advice, Zach. Trust me, I’m not some first-year law student trying to impress you. I was a prosecutor for a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of people dig deep holes for themselves by keeping their mouths shut. But I’ll say this: if you did kill Charlotte, then your friend is absolutely right. One hundred percent. But if you didn’t, then all lawyering up does is cause reasonable people to conclude that you’re guilty. Because why else wouldn’t you cooperate? So, which one is it? Did you kill her? Because if you did, you should definitely tell me to leave. But if you’ve got nothing to hide, then all you’re doing by staying silent is making me think you murdered my baby sister. And if I think that, you bet your ass that I’m going to make it my mission in life to make you pay. So, which is it, Zach?”
He shakes his head. I can’t tell if it’s because he disagrees with my analysis or if it’s just his way of telling me he’s sorry.
“Please, Zach. For the love of God, please help me and the police find Charlotte.”
“I need to think about things, Ella,” he says softly. “I’m not saying I won’t help the police, but right this moment I can’t say I will either.”
He walks to the front door. I’m certain he expects me to follow him, but after he opens the door and looks back, he sees me still in the living room.
“Please, Ella,” he says. “Don’t make me call the police to get you to leave. That won’t be good for anyone.”
He’s right about that. In fact, it’s the first thing he’s said that makes any sense to me.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Clare, goddamn it, you have to stay still!”
For the last forty minutes I’ve been frozen like a statue, clad in nothing but a bra. Nevertheless, Marco’s voice is full of contempt, as if my need to scratch my nose is a deliberate attempt to sabotage his work.
He’s wearing boxers and a T-shirt, his painting garb. The canvas he’s working on is large, not quite the size of a movie poster, but at least the size of our television turned vertical. I haven’t seen a brushstroke of his masterpiece yet, even though this is the third day I’ve sat for him.
“I’m tired,” I say back, knowing full well that I sound whiny. What my older sister Emily calls my baby-of-the-family voice. “Can’t we take a break?”
“Soon,” he snaps without making eye contact, or at least not with the me that is flesh and blood. He might be staring right at the eyes of the painting of me for all I know.
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“It was true then, and it’s true now. Soon doesn’t mean now. Someone should have told you that before.”
It’s a common refrain of Marco’s to remind me that I’m spoiled. I’ve long been inured to that criticism, but I’m always on the lookout for some sign that he’s self-aware of its hypocrisy, given that he also reaps the rewards of my father’s indulgence. I haven’t seen it yet.
“I don’t understand why I’m not allowed to move. Your paintings never look like me anyway, so what difference does it make?”
This stops him in his tracks. I knew it would, and that it would give me the opportunity to pee.
“Go!” he shouts. “Take your fucking break. You obviously don’t value what I’m doing here anyway.”
I immediately grab the robe lying on the sofa. It’s a bit of affect I adopt when serving as Marco’s model because I walk naked in front of him all the time in our day-to-day existence. He turns the canvas so it faces the wall, to prevent me from sneaking a peek, and then heads out to the terrace to smoke.
After I return from the bathroom, I continue to let him stew a little on the balcony, but not for so long that his anger will bake in. I’ve seen Marco angry, and it’s something to be avoided at all costs.
When I step onto the terrace, the breeze off the river is cool. I breathe it in, enjoying a moment for myself before I must focus on Marco’s enormous, eggshell-fragile ego.
“Are you happy with it?” I ask.
“I’d be happy if my model and, I dare say, my muse, was a little more interested,” he says back, without making eye contact.
“I’m committed. But I’m also human. And standing there naked without moving for hours at a time is not my idea of a good time.”
Now he looks at me. A cold stare.
“It’s not supposed to be a good time. It’s art. There’s got to be some pain involved.”
“I thought the artist was supposed to suffer. Not his subject.”
“Everyone suffers in the making of true art. If you understood that better, you’d be more successful.”
He shakes his head, once again denoting that this is all my fault. Then he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke away from me.
“What’s going on with you?” he asks.
“What?”
“You heard me. It’s like . . . I don’t know who you are anymore. Something’s going on with you.”
My heart rate involuntarily spikes. I’ve wondered for some time if Marco has any inkling of what is actually going on with me. I had assuaged myself with the belief that he’s sufficiently self-absorbed not to notice anything other than himself.
“Jesus, Marco. Nothing’s going on.”
He turns to me, looking almost menacing. It’s a look I’ve seen before. It frightens me enough that I tighten my grip on the terrace’s railing.
“You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No. Why would you even say that?”
“Little rich girl shacking up with your Mexican painter boy.”
This is another running theme for Marco. It fits in with the tortured artist thing for him to also identify himself as a member of a marginalized ethnic group. His father is a doctor and his mother a college professor in Mexico City, but to hear Marco tell it he came to this country in a banana boat, not on JetBlue.
“Please,” I say.
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“It’s not true.”
“Fuck you, Clare.”
And with that, he walks away.
As I watch Marco stomp around our living room, I realize I can no longer push my fears to the recesses of my subconscious. The honest truth is that I’m afraid of him. In the past weeks, his mood swings have been wilder. Sweetly affectionate one day and a raging lunatic the next.
I come in from the terrace. Without saying a word to Marco, I head toward the bedroom.
“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he barks.
“To take a shower.”
“Not when we still have work to do, you’re not. I’m going to lose the light in an hour.”
“I assumed that when you said ‘Fuck you, Clare’ and then walked away, that meant you were done with me for the day.”
“Done talking to you. Not done painting you.”
I find myself at a decision point: submit or defy.