There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(34)

Our studios are equally bright and sunlit, but in truth, Mara has the better view. Hers looks out over the park, while I’m facing the busy intersection of Clay and Steiner streets. It doesn’t matter—I’m here for the view down the hall.

Mara strides directly over to the model, not waiting for me to close the door behind us.

“It’s going to be incredible,” she breathes.

She looks down over the black glass labyrinth. The smooth, sheer walls will be glossy and reflective. The maze includes a dozen routes, but only one that will take you all the way through. The correct pathway is hidden within the walls. The openings can only be found by standing at just the right angle, or running your hands along the dark glass to feel where it breaks.

“I hope they choose your design,” she says. “I want to see this built.”

“So do I,” I admit.

Mara looks up into my face, her eyes bright with excitement.

“They will. They’ll choose you.”

I could probably strong-arm York into doing it, but I won’t. My art is the one area where I don’t manipulate. My work will live or die on its own merit.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from Sonia:

The cop is here.





He’s early—even more annoying than being late.

I stuff the phone back in my pocket.

“I’ve got to go talk to Hawks,” I say.

“Should I come?” Mara asks, her expression strained.

“No need, I’ll handle it. Keep working.”

Officer Hawks waits downstairs, next to Janice’s desk. He’s not the lead detective on the case—that’s an older officer named Potts. But according to my sources, the SFPD has egg on their face from all the young female bodies stacking up on their beaches. There’s a good chance Potts is about to get the boot and Hawks will be promoted. A fact of which he is probably well aware.

That’s why he’s here at my studio, digging down on every possible lead.

I pause at the base of the stairs, examining him before I step into view.

When he interviewed Mara, he wore the standard navy uniform with his gold badge pinned upon his breast.

Today he’s dressed in plain clothes—button-up shirt, slacks, and a sport coat. That could mean he’s off-duty. Or only trying to put me at ease—trying to make me think this meeting is a formality, not an interview.

In the plain tan jacket and Buddy Holly glasses, he looks a bit like a professor. Only the haircut gives him away—too fresh, too short, and too presidential. Our boy Hawks is ambitious. That’s the haircut of someone who wants his promotion badly.

He was polite to Mara when he interviewed her. Which means I don’t have to hunt him down off-hours. At least, not yet.

I step out into the lobby, striding toward him.

“Officer Hawks.”

“Mr. Blackwell.”

He holds out his hand to shake.

Sometimes I don’t shake hands, sometimes I do. It depends on what response I want to elicit.

In this case, I take the proffered hand. Hawk’s shake is firm, right on the edge of aggressive. He gives me a sharp look through the clear lenses of his glasses.

I keep my expression calm and relaxed. I already showed Hawks my teeth when he had Mara locked in an interrogation room. Today, I’m all politeness.

“We can speak in here,” I say, leading him into a conference room on the ground floor. I have no intention of allowing Hawks any deeper into the building.

“Is Mara here, too?” Hawks inquires pleasantly.

“She has a studio on the fourth floor.”

That’s not exactly an answer, something Hawks notes as well, his eyes flicking fractionally toward the ceiling before settling on my face again.

“I heard she’s living with you now.”

“That’s right.”

“How long have you two been dating?”

“It’s hard to put a timeframe on these things. You know how intangible a relationship can be. The art world is small. We’ve been in the same circle for some time, orbiting one another.”

I’m evasive on purpose. I say nothing that can be contradicted or disproven. Hawks will notice this too, but I don’t care. I want to annoy him. I want to push him to tip his cards.

I gesture to the conference room table, with its assortment of midcentury modern chairs, deliberately mismatched. Hawks takes a seat directly across from me.

He’s not taking notes, but I have no doubt he’ll remember everything I say, and probably write it down afterward.

“Did you ever meet Erin Whalstrom?” Hawks asks.

“Once or twice. Like I said, it’s an insular industry. I’m sure we attended the same parties and events.”

“Did you ever see Erin with Alastor Shaw?”

“Yes. I saw them talking the night of Oasis.”

“Shaw said that he and Erin had sex in the stairwell.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t present for that.”

“Did you see them leave the show together?”

“No.”

“Did you see Shaw leave at all?”

“No.”

“What was the last time you saw him?”

“I have no idea. There’s more wine than art at those things.”