Take the Fall(80)

“Gretchen destroyed the first one. It was one of the best things I’ve ever painted.” He opens his eyes, looking sidelong at the canvas. “This one’s okay.”

I turn back from the easel to look at his face. “What do you mean, she destroyed it?”

His eyes darken. “You’re the first person I’ve let in here since then—it seems kind of appropriate, since this is what set her off in the first place.”

“This painting?”

“The first one. I don’t know, I thought I was so careful, but I didn’t used to lock the door. I guess she saw something in it when she found it.”

I slide my hand out of his, stepping closer to the painting. If Gretchen saw this before they broke up . . . she’d have been upset to say the least.

But could she have thought I had any idea?

Marcus fidgets, collecting tubes of paint on the table, arranging them by color. “That video she made shows me flying into a rage, ready to kill her—and believe me, I wanted to—but what it doesn’t show is the rest of the room. She was sitting back, admiring the diptych when I found her. It was the only one she didn’t slash or throw paint on. I lost months of work.”

Something deep within me starts to quiver. Marcus seems too far away. Or maybe the tiny shed feels too big. I move to the table, take the paints out of his hands, and set them aside. He watches me, eyes dark and warm, but he barely moves. My body flashes hot. I open my mouth, but I don’t know how to say this, to allow myself this.

He casts his eyes down. “Sonia, what I said the other night, if you don’t feel—”

“No—yes. I do.”

I take his hand, and for one fleeting moment, I’m not sure what’s happening. Our fingers lace together. A mass of energy builds inside me, or maybe inside both of us. It spreads through our limbs, connecting us in a way I’ve never imagined possible. Not outside my head. I look into his eyes, my heart pounding, and then our lips crush together. His hands are in my hair, my hips press into his. We knock brushes and paints to the floor, almost upsetting the table, but neither of us lets go. My body trembles, my head is spinning. I have no idea what I’m doing, but here, now—this feels right.

Time seems to slow, and when we finally part, my mouth vibrates along with every cell in my chest. Marcus traces a finger along the arch of my brow, down my cheek.

“I don’t know what I would do if—” His voice hitches. He turns his head, pulling me to his chest. “I don’t know how to keep you safe.”

I wrap my arms tight around him, trying to hold on to the moment, but even as my heart races, the warmth inside me fades to dread.

He pulls away. “I’ve been thinking I might just come clean to Sheriff Wood.”

I stare at him, at my empty arms. “Come clean?”

“Tell them the truth . . . about my alibi.”

My stomach twists into a hundred knots. “You can’t do that.”

“They’ll never find the real killer if they don’t have all the facts.”

My chest tightens. He can’t realize what he’s saying. “How is telling them you could have killed her when you didn’t going to help anything?”

“I wanted Gretchen dead.” His face clouds. “Sometimes that feels as bad as being her murderer.”

“No.” I step toward him, panicked by the hopelessness in his voice. “It’s not the same, Marcus. At all.”

He cups his hand to my cheek. “You’re in danger as long as the real killer goes free.”

I touch my fingers to his and shake my head. “It was Alex Burke.”

He hesitates. “What if it wasn’t?”

“It has to be.” I pull away, pacing to the left, then the right. “We’ll take that recording to the sheriff. He’ll find a way to prove it.”

“The sheriff does need to know the guy threatened you.” Marcus sighs heavily. “But I’m not sure he killed her anymore . . . I couldn’t see it in his eyes.”

I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s an *, and if he ever comes near you—” He clenches his jaw. “But I can’t just pass the buck. I wouldn’t wish the situation I’m in on anyone, even him.” He looks long and hard at the diptych on the wall. “Maybe it was random after all. Maybe Gretchen just ran into some psycho in the woods.”

I close my eyes. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t Alex Burke. I think we’ve established you weren’t the only one who might’ve wanted to hurt her.”

“I’m the only one the cops seem to care about. I had motive, opportunity, and no real alibi.”

“No one knows the truth about your alibi but us.” I slip my hand into his, anxiety and fear tangling our fingers back together. “Please, just wait, Marcus. We can figure this out.”





THIRTY-SEVEN


WHEN I COME DOWNSTAIRS THURSDAY morning Uncle Noah is behind the register. It’s only been five days since he was in the hospital. He looks pale and he’s resting on a stool rather than standing, but his eyes are bright and alert. He cracks a wide smile when he sees me.

“There’s my favorite niece.”

I set my backpack on the counter and wrap my arms around his big shoulders. He hugs me back, but he feels smaller somehow, and he doesn’t smell right. “I heard Aunt Elena put you on a diet.”