“Are you Gilbert Clark?” one with salt and pepper hair asked.
Gil tensed, flinching at the police badge shoved in his face. “Depends who’s asking.”
“I’m Officer Hoyt, and this is Officer Marlow.”
Marlow nodded brusquely with shiny brown hair. “Hello.”
Gil didn’t return the greeting. His muscles tensed as if ready to pummel them both into the concrete.
Officer Hoyt placed his badge back into his blazer pocket. “We would like to have a word with you.”
Gil threw me a look over his shoulder. He tried to make it seem exasperated and impatient, but I’d spent too much time with him. I’d learned how to read him again. I saw the truth.
In his gaze was pure terror and the undeniable desire to run.
I gave him a brave smile, very aware I couldn’t move. I wanted to tell him not to be afraid.
I’m sure it’s just routine.
He nodded slightly as if he’d heard my silent encouragement. Shifting the box to his other arm, he muttered to me, “Don’t move. I still need to take pictures.”
His lips thinned as he marched toward his car.
Terrible foreboding filled me.
Why did the police want to talk to him? As a consultant or because they had evidence—
They can’t have evidence because Gil didn’t do anything.
My heart fluttered as the police hunted Gil’s every step.
All I wanted to do was chase them to the curb and fight for his innocence.
Because he was innocent.
He’s not a killer.
Sweat prickled beneath my painted skin.
I’d been afraid. Afraid of falling for him. Afraid of being hurt. Afraid of what might happen. Now I was afraid they would take him and I’d never see him again.
The cops waited as Gil opened the back door and placed the box inside. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Clark.”
“What about?” Gil’s voice lost any sign of emotion. Cold and as clinical as ever. His form of armour against those he didn’t trust.
“Your paints match the paints used on the victims recently found.”
What?
Gil stayed unruffled. “That’s entirely possible. Not many stores stock paint safe enough for long exposure to the skin. There isn’t a large market to choose from. Even online choices are minimal.”
“That might be. But with you being a body painter and the murders heavily based on such a hobby, not to mention being committed within our city, we want you to come to the station for questioning.”
The other cop added, “Protocol, you see. Won’t take long.”
“If it’s merely protocol, ask me here. I have work to do.” Gil’s temper sliced through his coldness.
“We have an audience,” Officer Hoyt muttered. “Best to discuss such things in private, don’t you think?”
God, I wished I wasn’t stuck against this stupid letter.
I was seconds away from breaking posture and running to Gil’s side.
But Gil seemed to sense my rapidly fraying self-control as he raised his voice. “Don’t you dare move, Olin. I’m grabbing my camera.”
“Mr. Clark. We’ve asked you to come—”
“I’ve just spent four hours of my life painting this commission. I’m not walking away before taking photos that pay my bills.” A murmur from the crowd rose as Gil shoved past the cops and opened the boot. Reaching in, he pulled out his expensive camera.
The police followed him again but stayed quiet.
I had no choice but to stay locked in a colourful prison while Gil defied law enforcement and fiddled with the functions on his tools.
With an arrogant look, he stormed away from the police and angled the lens at me. He started snapping. One after another from where he stood, then more from across the street, then more to the sides, up close, front on, and every other angle applicable.
All I had to do was hold the pose that was crippling after so long.
I supposed he’d Photoshop out the crowd and other noise. He’d somehow make it seem as if I’d magically become one with the store logo—floating in the letters, defying all laws of gravity.
With every camera click, the police stalked him. Their patience slowly waning the longer he postponed their chat. He’d probably taken over a hundred pictures, and to them, it most likely seemed as if he delayed their conversation deliberately.
To me, I knew Gil would take a copious number of photos so he would have more than enough to turn in a great commission. He took no chances that the purchaser wouldn’t be happy and refuse to pay—especially on a job he hadn’t enjoyed doing.
Finally, one of the officers put their hand on his camera and forced him to lower it. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I didn’t need to.
The cop pointed at the official vehicle parked across the street. Hand gestures said they wanted him to go with them.
That they were done waiting.
Gil nodded sharply and turned off his camera. Walking with them, his steps were short and unwilling.
But he went.
He went because he had no choice.
With his hand on the roof of the cop car, he turned to look at me.
No.
Don’t go.
I no longer wanted him to cooperate. What if they pinned it all on him? What if he didn’t come back?
What if he’s the most talented liar in history and he did do it?
What happens if I’m in love with a killer and stupid enough not to see?
With a groan, I forced atrophied muscles to move and stumbled from the illusion that I was one with the logo. “Gil, don’t—”
He curled a hand around his mouth to amplify his voice. “Pack up my stuff. Do you have your license?”
I nodded, wanting to hug myself.
“Good. Drive back to the studio with my gear. The key to the warehouse is in the car.” His eyes remained unreadable, shoving me deeper into the cold. “I’ll see you later.”
The crowd murmured loudly. Rumours and questions. Side looks and suspicious glances.
I knew what they were thinking.
Was Gil the body painting murderer?
Was that why the police were taking him?
Arresting him?
I didn’t have time to reply before an officer opened the car door, motioned for him to slip inside, then slammed it closed.
Gil didn’t look back as they drove him away.
Chapter Thirty
______________________________
Olin
-The Present-
SOMEONE HAS BEEN in my apartment.
I froze, my key in hand, a foot across the threshold.
I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.
Something was off. Something wasn’t right. Yet...nothing was missing.
Inching forward, I breathed shallowly as if monsters might hear and attack from behind cheap furniture. The kitchen still held the takeout containers from when Gil stayed over. The couch still decorated with his tossed-aside blanket. The dining room table still askew from our ruthless sex.
If someone had been here, surely something would’ve been moved?
I’m making stuff up.
No one had been here while Gil painted me on the street. No one had entered my privacy and sneaked around uninvited.
Only...