Alex’s eyes widen and I know we’ve screwed up. “You’re that kid they think killed her.”
Marcus’s face darkens. “Pretty sure that honor goes to you.”
“You come here to pin your shit on me?”
I jump in, trying to salvage what I can from this. “What were you doing in her room that night?”
“None of your damn business.” He turns back to the shop and I call out.
“Alex, was she threatening you?”
He stops.
I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “I’m just saying, I know Gretchen wasn’t always as sweet as she looked. If she had something on you—”
“I thought you said she never mentioned me.” He comes close, looks me up and down. His breath smells like chew. “You know something about it?”
“I . . . I might.” I hold his gaze, trying to maintain my bluff.
He spits at my feet. “Then maybe someone should push your sweet little ass in those falls.”
I gasp.
Marcus shoves him. “Get away from her!”
They both go stumbling toward a car missing wheels and a hood. The Rottie gets up and starts barking. Marcus’s hands are on Alex’s arm, but the mechanic yanks out of his grip. He swings at Marcus and misses. I fumble for my pepper spray, but before I can get it out of my pocket, Alex lands a punch squarely in Marcus’s gut. The old man sticks his head out of the auto shop door.
“I’ll call the cops on all of you,” he hollers.
“Good,” Alex says. “Tell them I’m being harassed.”
Marcus groans, but manages to stay on his feet. I grab his arm.
“Come on, we have to go.”
He growls. “He threatened you.”
“And you recorded it,” I whisper. “Now let’s get out of here.”
THIRTY-SIX
“YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY?”
Marcus shuts off the engine in front of his house, touches his side, and winces. “Aside from that being the second time I’ve been punched in front of you, yeah.”
I search the planes of his face, but the bruise Kip gave him has completely healed. “You’re getting better at it,” I say, trying to lighten his mood.
He hits the steering wheel and I jump. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. He pissed me off . . . and when he threatened you, I just freaked.”
“It’s okay.” I bite my lip. “He wouldn’t have told us anything either way.”
His shoulders droop. “He made it pretty clear what he’d like to see happen to you.”
I pull my hoodie closer. I can’t deny that.
Marcus turns, leaning toward me on the seat. “Sonia, there’s something I’ve wanted to—I mean—” He hesitates, tripping over his words. “Can I show you something?”
I search his eyes, wondering what he has in mind, and nod.
Marcus makes a beeline around his grandmother’s house and I follow, straight toward the studio out back. He hesitates, looking at me with his key in the door. He takes a single deep breath, then opens it wide and invites me inside.
I have never seen so much color.
There are paintings all along the walls, some in frames, some just sheets of paper held up with tacks. Thin ropes crisscross the air above our heads, dangling landscapes and portraits, and bright, beautiful abstracts. There’s an easel in one corner by the window and a table next to it covered in an array of tubes and jars and trays of different paints. The air has that clean smell that comes incongruously with an artist’s mess.
“I like to work fast, so I mostly use acrylics . . . but sometimes oils.” He mumbles, hesitant, like he’s talking just to fill the air.
I’m drawn immediately to a pair of framed portraits—or at least that’s what I think they are. Each of them is of a girl striking the same pose. Her head is thrown back, her hand splayed over her stomach, her wild orange hair floating around her head in a way that makes me think of laughter, though she has no actual facial features to complete the suggestion. The portraits are identical, but the colors are what make a distinctive contrast. One of them is done in bright tones—yellows, greens, purples, and reds. The other is all browns and blacks and grays. Except for the hair. That’s the same in both of them, bright orange-red. Individually, they’re smart, thought provoking. Side by side, they’re jarring, like you’re expecting to see a photograph and realize you’re looking at a negative.
“I just sold those. It’s a diptych—they go together.”
I nod. They would have to. They’re not at all what I imagined Marcus would do with Gretchen in paint—they’re better. She almost seems alive. I find Marcus’s signature at the bottom of each frame, but nothing else. “What are they called?”
“It’s untitled. They’re kind of a mash-up. . . .” He moves between the canvases and me and there’s a distance in his eyes, like he can’t wait to get them out of his sight. “For a while I was calling them Good & Evil, but that didn’t seem right.”
“They’re beautiful.”