Maybe taking Duncan wasn’t about the money. Maybe what Adam really wanted was this: to hurt Krell. Accuse him, get CALINVA to punish him, and the art world to turn on him.
But why does he hate Krell so much, if he didn’t go to CALINVA? Unless…unless he was Krell’s student before…at UCLA? Or somehow he was friends with the guy who killed himself, and like the second-years he blames Krell?
People are starting to spill into the lobby as the next class is about to begin. The second-years walk by, and I wonder if Adam used them the way he used me, because he knew that if he gave them a chance to get back at Krell they’d take it. Tag the painting and let the second-years do the rest.
I smooth my scarf up around my cheeks. When it comes to exploiting other people’s anger and fear, Adam’s a true artist.
I can barely concentrate in Color & Theory, because I can’t stop thinking about Adam using me and the second-years to do his dirty work. He’s so sure he pulled off the perfect crime, but when he tagged or got someone else to tag a million-dollar masterpiece with “Murderer,” he guaranteed the police would get involved.
He probably thinks he’s safe since he’s basically a ghost. Still, all those nights he spent wandering around CALINVA? Someone other than me has to have seen him.
The painting’s probably in the hands of the police right now, and if they pick up clues that point to Adam, they could point to me, too.
After class, I pound up Raymond toward Artsy. Effing Adam, putting that six grand in my bank account. He thinks I’m too selfish or afraid to turn on him?
The scarf around my neck is choking me, and I tear it off and stuff it into my bag. Yes, Adam had my number: desperate, weak, and easy to manipulate.
The light turns red just before I step off the curb. I wheel around and smash the button, which does nothing. I am not going down for what he did. There has to be a way to fix this. I have to prove he exists. Adam’s smart, but he’s got to have left some kind of trail. Julie saw him.
I sweep the park across the street but don’t see her. Now that I’m thinking about it, I haven’t seen Julie since the night of the exhibition. Not on the street or on the bench she likes in the park.
This is not good. On so many levels.
What if she…No, I just saw her a few days ago. She will show up, she will, but in the meantime…
I draw in a long breath and let it out. I go down the list of everything I know about Adam, and it hits me—he got my guitar out of the pawnshop. He could be on their surveillance tape.
I check my watch and I’ve got fifteen minutes. The light changes and I dash across the street toward Fair Oaks.
My portfolio case flaps alongside my legs, threatening to trip me, but I make it to the pawnshop in record time. I’m breathless as I burst through the door. Steve with the slicked-back hair and moist lips looks up from behind the counter. “The devil chasing you or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” I say. I dig into my wallet and take out my pawn ticket. “One of my friends surprised me by paying off my loan, and then left my guitar on my porch.”
“Nice surprise.”
“Yeah, it was, but I want to know who it was so I can thank them.”
“Why don’t you ask them?”
“I did, but they’ve all denied doing it, so I thought maybe you might remember who came in a couple weeks ago and picked up a guitar with roses painted on the neck.”
Steve picks up the pawn ticket and reads it. “I remember the guitar, but I wasn’t working the day it got picked up.”
I slump against the counter. “Darn.” Then I look at the surveillance camera as if this is the first time I’ve seen it. “Oh, wait. Does that camera mean the person who picked up the guitar might be on tape?”
Steve frowns, only mildly put out by my asking. He invites me behind the counter to look at an ancient computer screen.
It’s early in the day, but the smell of beer seeps out of his skin. Steve’s slowly rewinding the tape, and it’s tight behind the counter with the two of us. He’s not a small guy, and I pray he’ll keep his hands to himself.
“You must go to that art school,” he says.
I’d like to say no, but my portfolio case is right there. “Yeah.”
The tape’s wound back, and Steve fast-forwards through the day Adam retrieved my guitar. People jerk on the screen, handing over watches and cameras for cash.
“What’s your major?” Steve says.
“Painting.”
“You paint any naked men?”
It takes all my strength not to bolt. “Nudes? Nope. That’s an upper-division class,” I say as casually as I can.
Steve checks the time stamp on my ticket. “Should be coming up soon,” he says, just before Mom’s guitar appears on the screen. “Was I right or was I right?” He chuckles.
My jaw drops. What the…? It’s not Adam. I close my mouth before Steve sees I have no clue who that girl is who’s paying for my guitar, that girl who looks uncomfortably like me.
Long hair cut like mine, artsy blouse over jeans, messenger bag and portfolio.
“So who’s your friend?” Steve says. His hand grazes my ass and I edge away.
“That’s Trish,” I say, throwing out the first name that comes to mind.
“She looks like you.”
“Yeah, people always say we look alike.” I scoot out from behind the counter and gather up my bag and portfolio case. “Thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it.”
I make a show of checking my watch. “Oops! Late for work!” Then I fling myself through the door and hustle up the street, not looking back.
Adam’s thought through every detail, even finding a girl who looks like me to pick up my guitar? I slow as I turn the corner, filled with a nauseating certainty that if I went through CALINVA’s security tapes, Adam’s face wouldn’t appear. When we walked the halls, he always carried my painting in front of him like a shield.
The only person I know for sure who’s seen Adam near CALINVA is Julie. I have to find her.
When I walk in from work, Kevin’s sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs. Mednikov, and he’s operating on her toaster with a screwdriver. A half-eaten piece of pear crumble lies next to the toaster’s metal cover, clear evidence she bribed Kevin to fix it.
It’s a moment of normal, of how my life could be if I straightened it out. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”
Kev tilts his head back and I give him a quick kiss. He tastes of pear and brown sugar, and the vanilla ice cream melting on the plate. I scoop up a forkful and drop it in my mouth.
“What’s wrong with the toaster?” I ask, surveying the knobs, screws, and small metal pieces carefully laid out on the tabletop.
“This morning it burned the toast to cinders. To be safe, it needed repair.” Mrs. Mednikov is almost imperial in the way she rises from her seat and glides into the living room.
“She’s shameless!” I whisper.
Kev smiles after her. “It’s an easy fix,” he says, working the screwdriver. “All I have to do is turn this calibration knob toward the solenoid to shorten the toasting cycle.”