There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(31)

“Okay, Jesus,” Sonia says. “I’ll tell him it has sentimental value and you’re not interested in selling.”

I laugh.

“Sentimental value? I suppose you’re right—I did buy it with the inheritance when my father died.”

Sonia falters. “Oh, you did? I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”

“That’s right.” I smile. “You could say I was celebrating.”

Sonia looks at me, considering this.

“Great men don’t always make great fathers,” she says.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any good fathers.”

“You’re so cynical,” Sonia shakes her head sadly.

My eyes are already drawn back to Mara’s figure on my computer screen.

Tolstoy said that happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are unhappy in their own way.

Mara’s grungy childhood might be typical, but I want to know her history all the same.

She sparks my curiosity in a way that’s vanishingly rare these days, when I can’t seem to muster interest in anyone or anything.

As if she knows who I’m thinking about, Sonia says, “Do you want to deliver the good news to Mara, or should I do it?”

“You tell her,” I say. “And don’t let her know it’s from me.”

Sonia frowns. “Why are you always so averse to anyone knowing you’re a good guy?”

“Because I’m not a good guy,” I tell her. “Not even a little bit.”





14





Mara





Early in the morning, I finally rinse out my paintbrushes and wash my hands at the sparkling stainless-steel sink in the corner.

I worked all night long, and now I have a brunch shift to cover. But I don’t regret a thing. This painting is coming alive in a way I’ve never experienced before. I wish I could keep working on it right now.

I gather up my scattered belongings, pausing in front of the large mirror hung on the wall so I can tidy my paint-streaked bird's nest of hair.

As I’m doing so, I spot something in the reflection that I hadn’t noticed before: a camera mounted above the door, pointed into the studio. I frown, turning to face the blank black lens.

Why is there a camera in here?

Is it recording all the time?

Something tells me yes, it is.

I feel suddenly self-conscious, replaying my spastic behavior all night long as I labored away on the painting. Was I talking to myself? Scratching my ass?

I’m paranoid that Cole Blackwell is watching me.

He unnerves me, and I don’t fucking trust him. I don’t know what his intentions are, but experience has taught me that when a man takes a special interest in me, it’s never fucking good.

As I’m leaving, I stop at the cafe on the ground level, treating myself to one of the iced lattes Sonia promised were so good. She’s not wrong—the coffee is rich and perfectly prepared.

Sonia herself comes through the front doors as I’m leaving.

I kind of wish she hadn’t caught sight of me, since she’s dressed in a stylish scarlet pantsuit, her hair freshly blown out and her lipstick immaculate. Whereas I look like I spent the night riding around in the back of a garbage truck.

Also, if she’s talked to Cole, there’s a good chance she’s going to give me my walking papers.

“Oh, Mara!” she says, “You’re here early.”

“Hey,” I say nervously. “Just leaving, actually. I was working late—I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay.” She smiles. “That’s why you have twenty-four-hour access.”

“Yeah . . .” I say. “Actually I was curious . . . I noticed a camera in the studio. Right above the door.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “All the studios have them. It’s for security purposes only—we’ve had issues with theft in the past. Don’t worry, no one has access to the feed. It would only be reviewed in cases where an incident has occurred.”

“Sure.” I nod.

I don’t believe a word she’s saying. Cole owns this building, and those cameras are there for a reason.

“I have good news for you,” Sonia says.

“You do?” I say, still thinking about the camera.

“The guild reviewed all the applications . . . you’ve been chosen for the grant!”

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.” She passes me a slim envelope with my name neatly typed on the label. “That’s your check. And you’ll be showing at New Voices in a couple of weeks!”

I clutch the envelope, stunned. “I’m starting to feel like you’re my fairy godmother, Sonia.”

She laughs. “Better than a wicked stepmother.”

She strides away cheerfully, heading up toward her office.

I open the envelope and take out the check, which has my full name on it, made out for two thousand dollars, right there in black and white.

What the fuck is going on?

There’s no way I should have gotten that grant after confronting Blackwell. In fact, I expected Sonia to tell me to pack my shit and get out.