The Collector
Page 14

“You never told me that.”
“We weren’t tight, but we were friendly. Liked each other, but not tight enough for me to know how troubled she was, I guess. Her boyfriend dumped her—that couldn’t have been all of it, but I guess it was the trigger. She took sleeping pills. She was only nineteen.”
“Awful.” For a moment Lila felt it, that terrible despair. “I don’t want Zit-face to have the crush anymore. Just the zits.”
“Yeah. Love, even when it’s not real, can be deadly. We’ll leave that part out. Do you want me to come back, be here when Ashton comes?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. But if you’re not ready to go home, you can stay as long as you need.”
“I’m okay with it now. I can handle some teenager. And my guess is she got what she wanted, and will go play cat burglar somewhere else.” But she sighed heavily. “I really liked those shoes, damn it. I hope she trips in them and breaks her ankle.”
“Harsh.”
“So’s stealing another woman’s Manolos.”
She couldn’t argue with that, so Lila drank her coffee.
Four
She felt settled again once she got back to work, back into her story. Werewolf wars and cheerleader politics both took some careful navigation. They kept her busy and involved into mid-afternoon, when Thomas demanded some playtime.
She broke off with Kaylee’s beloved cousin hanging on the thin line between life and death after an ambush. A good place to stop, she decided, and getting back to see what happened would motivate her on the next round.
She played ball-on-a-string with the cat until she could distract him with one of his motion-activated toys, then tended the little terrace garden, harvested some tomatoes, cut herself a little bouquet of zinnias.
And she’d put it off long enough, she told herself. She picked up her phone, scrolled to Ash’s contact number. It made it all real again. The beautiful blonde begging for mercy. The way her legs kicked the air on the horrible fall, the sudden, brutal impact of flesh and bones on the concrete below.
It was real, Lila thought. It would always be real. Tucking it away didn’t change that, so she might as well face it head-on.
Ash worked with the music banging. He’d started off with Tchaikovsky, certain it would fit the mood, but the soaring notes only bogged him down. He switched to a mix of hard, head-banging rock. That worked—the energy of it pumped into him. And changed the tone of the painting.
He’d initially envisioned the mermaid lounging on a ledge of rock on the verge of a stormy sea as sexual, but now the sexuality took on a predatory edge.
Now there came a question. Would she save the seamen who fell into that stormy sea when their ship crashed into the rocks, or would she drag them under?
The moonlight, not romantic now, no, not romantic, but another threat as it illuminated the teeth of the rocks, the speculative gleam in her sea mist eyes.
He hadn’t expected the violence when he’d done the initial sketches, hadn’t expected the question of brutality when he’d used the model with her tumble of ink-black hair for the early stages.
But now, alone with the pounding music, the vicious storm at sea and the violence of his own thoughts, the painting evolved into something just a little sinister.
She Waits, he thought.
When his phone rang his instinct was annoyance. He always turned off his phone when he worked. With a family the size of his, he’d be deluged with calls, texts, e-mails all day and half the night if he didn’t put up some boundaries.
But he had felt obliged to leave it on today. Even now he ignored the first two rings before he remembered why he’d left it on.
He set down his brush, took the second brush he had clamped between his teeth and tossed it aside, reaching for the phone.
“Archer.”
“Oh, ah, it’s Lila. Lila Emerson. I was—are you at a party?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s loud. The music’s loud.”
He looked for the remote, shoved at some jars, punched the music off. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. If you don’t play Iron Maiden loud, there’s no point. And since you’re probably working, my apologies. I just wanted to call to let you know if you still want to come here, look at the . . . well, look from where I was that night, it’s fine.”
His first surprise was that she’d recognized the ancient “Aces High” as Iron Maiden, and the next that she’d correctly assumed he’d had it to ear-splitting while he worked.
But he’d think about that later.
“Is now good?”
“Oh . . .”
Don’t push, he warned himself. Poor tactics. “Tell me when,” he said. “Whenever it works for you.”
“Now’s good. I just didn’t expect you to say it. Now’s fine. Let me give you the address.”
He grabbed a sketching pencil to scribble it down. “Got it. Give me about a half hour. I appreciate it.”
“It’s . . .” She caught herself before she said “fine” again. “I’d want to do the same in your place. I’ll see you in about thirty.”
Done it now, she thought. “So, what’s the etiquette for this situation, Thomas? Do I put out a nice little plate of Gouda and sesame crackers? No, you’re right. That’s just silly. Makeup? Again you’re wise beyond your years, my young student. That’s a definite yes. No point looking like a refugee.”
She decided to change out of her going-nowhere shorts, thin-with-age bubble-gum-pink T-shirt with its retro Wonder Twins silkscreen.
It might also help to look like an adult.
She wished she’d made some sun tea, which also struck her as adult and responsible, but since she’d left it too late for that, decided coffee would do if he wanted anything.
She hadn’t quite finished dithering when she heard the bell.
Awkward, she thought. The whole thing was so damn awkward. She glanced through the peep—blue T-shirt today, and the stubble just a little heavier. Hair thick, dark, tousled—eyes smart-cat green and just a little impatient.
She wondered if it would be slightly less awkward if he was pudgy and bald or twenty years older. Or anything that didn’t hit every single one of her yum buttons.
A woman shouldn’t think yum in this situation, she reminded herself, and opened the door.