There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(26)

“What do they want to see?” I ask eagerly. “I just finished a collage. And I started this new piece, but I haven’t done much yet . . .”

“Just show them whatever you’ve got,” Sonia says. “It doesn’t need to be complete.”

Elation and sickening terror surge through me. I want this so fucking bad. The money would be great, but a spot in New Voices is even better. It’s by invite only, and all the biggest brokers will be there. Getting a piece in the show could really boost me up the ladder.

I look at my work in progress. It’s fucking cool, I’m proud of it.

But I had another idea percolating in my mind . . .

I’ve got a fresh canvas stretched and ready, leaned up against the wall. It’s massive—eight feet high, ten feet long. It would be the largest painting I’d ever done.

I wonder if I should start working on it. Sonia said my painting didn’t need to be complete to show the panel . . . this would be more ambitious.

Maybe too ambitious. It could be a fucking disaster.

I shift back and forth, gazing between my collage and the blank canvas.

Finally, I turn back to the easel. Starting something new would be a huge risk. I’ve practiced the collage technique—that’s what I should stick with for now.

I’m a nervous wreck over the weekend. Any minute that I’m not at work, I’m laboring feverishly on the new collage, trying to get as much done as possible before the panel comes to see it.

Monday morning I spend an hour rifling through my closet, flinging clothes around like that will magically transform them into something wearable.

I can’t decide if I should wear something “artistic” or something professional. This is a stupid dilemma because I don’t actually own anything professional. Most of my clothes are thrifted, very few made in the last decade.

The other issue is these fucking scars on my arms. I’m so pissed that this happened when the others had finally faded. When I was starting to look normal again.

I look like a lunatic. I feel like a lunatic after trying on yet another shirt, then ripping it off and flinging it across the room.

Taking a deep breath, I tell myself the panel won’t be looking at me—they’ll be looking at the collage. And they’ll either like it or they won’t. It’s not in my control.

Snatching up my purse, I head to the studio.





The panel is late.

I keep working on the collage, pretending like I can’t hear the clock ticking away on the wall. I’m too nervous to play music like I usually would.

Finally, I hear footsteps out in the hall and the low murmur of polite conversation. Someone raps on my door, light and formal.

“Come in!” I croak.

The door cracks open, allowing six people to file inside.

Sonia heads the group. She trills, “Everyone, this is Mara Eldritch, one of our most promising junior artists! As you can see, she’s hard at work on a new series. Mara, this is the panel of The Artists Guild: Martin Boss, Hannah Albright, John Pecorino, Leslie Newton, and of course, Cole Blackwell.”

As she reels off the names, I turn to face the panel of artists, most of whom I’ve at least heard of before. My eyes slide across five faces, landing at last on the man I’ve most been wanting to meet: my benefactor, Cole Blackwell.

The room tilts with a sickening jerk.

I see a face that was burned into my brain, never to be forgotten.

Shaggy dark hair. Silvery skin. A soft, sensual mouth. Eyes blacker than jet.

It’s the man who stood over me.

The one who left me to die.

I’m staring at him open-mouthed, frozen in horror.

It feels like twenty minutes have passed.

But maybe it’s only been a moment, because Cole says smoothly, “Nice to finally meet you, Mara. How are you getting along in the space?”

The silence ticks by. I hear several panel members shifting in place while I gape at Cole.

Finally my voice rasps out, “Fine. Good. Thank you.”

Thank you?

What the fucking fuck?

Why am I thanking him? He saw me squirming on the ground like a dying insect and he walked right over me.

He’s staring at me now in precisely the same way: face cold, eyes bright. The corners of that beautiful mouth quirking up as if he wants to smile . . .

This fucking maniac is doing it all over again. He’s watching me squirm. And he’s loving it.

I want to scream out loud, I WAS KIDNAPPED! TORTURED! LEFT TO DIE! THIS MAN MIGHT HAVE DONE IT! And if he didn’t, he was definitely there . . .

“So, what are you working on today?” Leslie Newton says. Her voice is high and bright, as if she’s trying to smooth over the awkward moment.

I’ve got to pull it together. They’re here to see my collage. Everything is riding on this moment. If I start shouting like a madwoman, I’ll lose everything.

I turn toward the canvas, reeling like I’m drunk.

“Well,” I rasp, pausing to clear my throat. “As you can see, in this new series I’m experimenting with non-traditional artistic materials. Seeing if I can create a luxe effect by layering and manipulating alternative substances.”

“And where did you get that idea?” Martin Boss demands. He’s tall, skinny, and bald, dressed in a black turtleneck and Buddy Holly glasses. His voice is sharp and challenging, like he’s accusing me of something.