“Uh . . .” Aria’s mind spun. “Well, I have other pieces completed.”
“And I’m sure they’re awesome. Listen, send me some JPEGs of them, could you? If we like them—and I’m sure we will—I want to offer you a three-day show starting next Tuesday—we can move some stuff around and squeeze you in. We’ll make it worth your while, honey. Lots of promo. Tons of press. A big party during the opening. Everything will sell—at my gallery, it always does.”
“Excuse me?” Aria squeaked, astonished. A gallery show? In New York City?
Her other line beeped. Aria glanced at the caller ID again; this time, a call was coming in from a 718 area code: Brooklyn. “My name is Victor Grieg, from the Space/Think Gallery in Williamsburg—I saw your story on Art Now,” a fast-talking man with a heavy foreign accent said. He asked the same questions about Aria having other works for sale. Then he said, “We want to give you a show, like, now. Who’s your agent?”
“I—I don’t have an agent,” Aria stammered. “Can I call you back?”
She hung up on both galleries. Harrison looked at her curiously, and Aria grinned. “Two galleries in New York want to give me shows!” she announced gleefully. The statement hardly seemed real.
Harrison gave her a knowing look. “This is your start!” He leaned forward like he wanted to hug her, then seemed to change his mind and hung back. “So when do they want to show you?”
“N-next week. Starting on Tuesday.” The reality struck her. Aria glanced at her other paintings stacked in the corner. Did she have enough? She couldn’t sell the ones of Noel—that would just be too weird. Then her gaze settled on the all-black canvas, Ali’s sixth-grade smirk covered over. She couldn’t use that one, either. She definitely needed to paint more over the next few days.
Harrison beamed. “Well, I’ll let you finish up with the galleries—I think I’ve got all I need for my post. But hey, I never like to miss a gallery show of the artists I feature—maybe I could snag an invite?”
“Of course!” Aria cried, wondering if she should ask him if he’d be her date. She’d only just met him, though.
Harrison looked pleased. He stood, rummaged in his pocket, and handed her a slim white card. The swirly Fire and Funnel logo was at the top, and below was his name in gray ink. Her fingers brushed his as she took his card. Aria moved toward him, wanting to get in that hug after all, but now Harrison was fiddling with his bag. When he looked at her again, she felt shy.
So she stuck out her hand. “Great to meet you.”
“Absolutely.” Harrison shook her hand, his fingers pressed against hers for an extra beat. Aria was pleased to note that her stomach did a little flip. “See you soon,” he added.
When he was gone, Aria turned back to her phone, eager to call the galleries back. Which should she go with? Who would give her a better show? She felt like a princess who had too many suitors to choose from. It was crazy to think that just moments before, in her interview, she’d been unsure about how to answer the question about her future. Now it was like it had been served to her on a silver platter, every detail falling into place. This is your start, Harrison had said to her excitedly.
And suddenly it felt like the truth.
12
NOTHING SAYS SEXY LIKE A GUARD-SUPERVISED DATE
The Ulster Correctional Facility rose above a forest of dark green trees, gray and bland against the cloudy sky. On Tuesday afternoon, Emily pulled her car through a set of electronic gates toward a sign that said GUEST PARKING. The lot was desolate, save for a rusty Toyota pickup truck in the last spot. A gust of wind pushed a Coke can across the pavement. Even though it was summer, the trees on the prison lot were bare.
Emily cut the engine and sat for a moment. Her head pounded from all the coffee she’d had to get her through the long drive to the prison outside New York City. Her heart was beating fast, too, though she doubted it was from caffeine. In moments, she was going to walk into a prison. And see Jordan.
Deep breath.
She climbed out and glanced over her shoulder into the scrubby woods. The whole drive, she’d felt like someone was following her, but whenever she’d checked her rearview mirror, she’d always seen a different car—or no car at all. Ali could be anywhere right now, though. Why had she run off without killing Emily? Why hadn’t Fuji gotten back to them with the DNA results? How long did testing take, anyway?
She thought, too, about a blog post she’d read this morning on one of the most popular Ali Cat sites. The poster, whose name was an androgynous WeWillAlwaysRemember, had written: Any enemy of Alison is an enemy of mine. She was a VICTIM. If you hate her, I hate you. I think you know who I’m talking about.
The post worried Emily. What if Ali Cats were more than twisted freaks who worshipped a psychopath? What if they actually had it out for people who didn’t like Ali—namely, Emily and the others? She’d forwarded it to the others . . . and, after some thought, to Fuji. Of course Fuji hadn’t responded.
She crossed the lot and pulled open a heavy metal door marked ENTRANCE. The latch caught loudly behind her, and she was greeted by a sad-sounding country song on a tinny radio. A woman in a navy uniform looked up from behind a gated window. “ID,” she said to Emily in a bored voice.
Emily slipped her driver’s license through a small opening. The woman inspected it, her eyes droopy and tired.
“You’re here to see Jordan Richards?” the woman asked. Emily nodded, too afraid to speak.