The crowd audibly sucks in a breath at the sight of the angel, standing proudly in the center of the fountain—her wings stretched as if to take flight, her eyes with all the dark knowledge of this earth and all the painful hope for more.
I step down, my insides still quivering from being onstage, and the crowd sweeps me up. It’s gorgeous, transcendent. Who was your model? Do you take commissions? What’s your availability?
Honor manages to squeeze in beside me and encircles me in a hug. “You were wonderful up there,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say, eyes wet with tears.
She hands me back my silver clutch before people press their way between us again. I knew that I might get a commission or two out of this event, but I’m unprepared for the deluge of interest. I answer the questions as best I can, feeling overwhelmed.
I didn’t use a model for this piece. I’m not sure what my availability will be. No, I don’t have a website. No agent either.
It feels like I’ve been fielding questions for hours even though it’s probably just been twenty minutes. I’m out of breath and flushed.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to an older woman dripping in diamonds.
Without waiting for her response, I stumble away, ignoring the calls and the hands that reach for me. Is this how my sister felt when she danced onstage? Except worse because she was naked—and the men thought they had a right to her body.
I stumble across the courtyard, over the threshold of wide double doors, across velvety carpet. The first private places I see are the small vestibules that used to be VIP rooms. They’ve been converted into ticket booths, but they’re not operational right now because this is a closed, invite-only grand opening event.
Leaning back against the door of one, I close my eyes and breathe deep—trying not to think about all the things that have happened in these four-by-four feet of space: favors paid for, things taken without permission.
Once my breathing evens out, I reach into my clutch and pull out my phone. It’s blinking with notifications, which isn’t surprising. A bunch of my classmates are on Instagram with me…and now that I think about it, I guess I could have given this URL to the people asking about my website. Then I remember the goofy picture Amy and I took with the shot glasses shaped like high-heeled shoes. It’s probably best I didn’t tell them about my account.
There’s also a text message from Amy.
Hey—this is going to sound weird. You know the guy you always sketch? I think I saw him.
My heart immediately races faster than it did onstage. The shadowy shape of him that night in the alley. The missing orange pieces. I tell myself I’m imagining things, but it doesn’t help.
With trembling fingers I type, That’s not possible.
After a minute my phone rings. “Hello,” I breathe. “What happened? Where did you see him?”
“It’s probably nothing,” she says, but her voice sounds strange, like she’s just seen a ghost. “I left my makeup bag at your place, and I have a date with Mr. Bouncer tonight, so I went back to get it. I used my key and went straight to the bathroom. I was just packing up the eyeshadow when I heard this sound in the apartment.”
“Oh my God.”
“I went out and I didn’t see anything, so—I don’t know why, but I walked over to the window and looked down. There was someone at the bottom. I just saw a flash of his face with the streetlamp. Then he was gone. It freaked me out, that’s all.”
“Of course it did. That’s scary.” The neighborhood isn’t exactly the safest. Not as dangerous as where I am now, though. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I peeked out at the street before I left, and waited until the Uber pulled up before I stepped outside. But I didn’t see anyone. Just some students walking around.”
“I’m sorry it scared you, but I bet Lupo got spooked and that got your attention. Then you saw some random guy—”
“But he looked like him, Clara. I must have seen a hundred sketches of him by now.”
Something that feels uncomfortably like hope shifts in my chest. I push it down. “I wish you were right, but it’s just not possible. He’s…” I’ve never told her who Giovanni was to me—or what happened to him. “He’s dead.”
“Oh,” she says, voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”
“Look, don’t worry about it. Go out with Mr. Bouncer—who has a name, I presume?”
“Probably.”
I snort. “Well, have fun with him and his muscles. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
When I hang up, I have a smile on my face. It fades as I remember what she said. He looked like him, Clara. She really has seen a lot of sketches of him. But there are bound to be men who look like him. Doppleg?ngers. And she saw him in the dark, from one story up. There’s no way it’s him.
I know this, and yet somehow my fingers are pulling up the Uber app and ordering a car. Then I’m slipping through the crowd, avoiding my sister so she doesn’t see me leave.
I’m breathless by the time I reach my building’s door and run up the stairs. I throw the door open, but my loft is empty. Of course it is. The window reveals an empty fire escape and an empty sidewalk below.