“I heard that there were some student artists also showing,” I say. “Any idea where that would be?”
“Yes,” the woman says with a smile. “Go through those doors—it’s down the hall a bit.”
Marco has been relegated to the bullpen. Now I’m certain he’ll be furious. The one bright spot of him being in Siberia is that at least I’ll be able to claim that I arrived on time but couldn’t find him.
I don’t see anyone else in the hallway, so I fully expect Marco’s room to be similarly uninhabited. But when I enter, he’s talking to another man.
I’m anticipating being on the receiving end of some type of death stare from Marco, his way of making it clear to me that he’s angry that I’m late. Instead, he greets me with a broad grin.
“Speak of the devil,” Marco says.
The man who has held Marco’s attention turns around.
It’s Matthew. My Matthew.
I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up at Marco’s event. And worse, he’s engaged him. I can only imagine the hell I’d have to pay if I pulled a similar stunt with Matthew’s wife.
“Very nice to meet you,” Matthew says. “Clare, is it?”
“Y-yes,” I manage to say even though my jaw is so tight it could press a diamond from coal.
“Matthew here is interested in purchasing the piece I did of you,” Marco says. “He said it held . . . what was your exact turn of phrase?”
“Transcendent beauty,” Matthew says with a smile.
I can finally see Marco’s portrait of me. It’s propped up on an easel in the middle of the room. Me, in all my naked glory.
I’ll give Marco this—the piece is magnificent. He’s captured almost my fantasy of myself, and even though I’m wearing next to nothing it isn’t prurient in the least.
Words escape me. After all, what can you say when your lover is catfishing your boyfriend? But then it occurs to me that Marco might be expecting me to suck up to his potential buyer.
“I couldn’t agree more,” is all I could come up with.
Matthew looks deeply into my eyes, as if I’m totally in on this joke. Then, turning to Marco, he says, “Do I really need to take up the business arrangements with the gallery? I can’t just tell you to name your price for this piece and walk out with it?”
Marco laughs. “I wish, but it doesn’t work that way. The gallery handles all sales for this show, but I can arrange a private showing of my work if you like. On those pieces, you can deal with me directly.”
Marco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. It looks like a receipt. On the side without the print, he scribbles his address and number. “Here you go,” he says. “You can reach me on my mobile. Day or night.”
The transaction seems as if it’s unfolding in slow motion, the way you might witness a car accident. All I want is for the two of them to stop occupying the same space.
“Thank you,” Matthew says, taking the scrap from Marco. “And now I better put in my claim on this beauty before someone else snatches it out from under me.” He extends his hand to Marco and as they shake, Matthew says, “I’m so glad that I wandered out of the main room. You’re very, very talented, Marco. I’m thrilled that I’ll be getting in on the ground floor of what I have every expectation will be a long and prosperous career.” He turns and smiles at me again. “And very nice meeting you too, Clare. I look forward to hours of staring at you . . . at least on canvas.”
Marco waits for Matthew to leave. Then he gushes, “Can you believe that? ‘Transcendent beauty.’ You know, that’s what I should have titled it. Well, at least I won’t have to split the price with Henry when Mr. Wall Street buys my other pieces.”
I know there’ll be no other purchases. In fact, I consider it a fair possibility that Matthew won’t even buy this one of me. And if that’s the case, there truly will be hell to pay with Marco—even if he doesn’t figure out that I’m in love with his would-be patron.
23.
When I arrive at Charlotte’s apartment, there’s a duffel bag in the living room.
“Going somewhere?” I ask Zach. “I would have thought you’d have no reason to run now.”
“I have the definite feeling I’ve worn out my welcome here.”
He’s right about that. In fact, he’s about a week late in coming to the conclusion.
“You can’t blame us for that. Even if you didn’t kill Charlotte—and I’m far from certain of that still—your courageous decision to mislead everyone as to when she went missing might very well have ended her life just the same.”
He can’t make eye contact, which pleases me. Even so, I’m certain he doesn’t feel nearly bad enough for the havoc he’s wreaked.
“When will you be out of here? The sight of you in my sister’s apartment sickens me.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. His self-control surprises me—a sign of just how much my understanding of Zach has merged with Marco the painter.
“Another hour or so,” he says.
“Let me guess. You’re taking up residence with your little law-school friend?”
This time he looks at me. I can see the anger just beneath the surface, even though Zach’s trying mightily to suppress it.
“That’s none of your business.”
I laugh in the patronizing way I perfected back when I was an ADA and suspects thought they had the upper hand. It unequivocally told them that they had no idea how out of their depth they really were.
“Suit yourself. You won’t be living with her long, anyway. Lying to the police makes you guilty of obstruction of justice. That’s a class E felony in New York, punishable by three to five years in jail. I’m going to make sure you serve every day of it. A pretty boy like you . . . I’m quite confident you’ll become the girlfriend of some animal at Rikers soon enough.”
In reality, under New York law, obstruction of justice is a class A misdemeanor. Jail time is limited to one year by statute, and I’m not aware of any first-time offender going to prison for a misdemeanor infraction. Zach, of course, doesn’t know the law. I’m hoping the specter of jail time will unnerve him.
But he doesn’t show the slightest reaction. It’s as if there’s nothing I can say that matters to him any longer.
His nonchalant attitude pushes me over the edge. Even before I realize it’s happening, I hear myself screaming.
“Get the fuck out of here right now, you fucking lowlife piece of shit!”
Next thing I know, my hands are around the handle of Zach’s duffel bag and I’m running toward the door. I throw it into the hallway and am coming back to do the same to Zach when I see his palms in front of his chest. He’s telling me to stop.
“Please,” he says. “Sit down. I know we’re likely not going to talk again after today, so we should talk now.”
Still enraged, I follow Zach over to the sofa. If he has something to say, I’ll hear it. But that’s all the civility I’m prepared to provide him.