Chapter Thirty-Four SCARLETT

Chapter Thirty-Four

S CARLETT

Wednesday, July 17, 2024

11:45 p.m.

I looked up at Margo’s apartment. It was dark.

Dawson’s reactions had been expected, but I’d not been able to get a read on Margo. I couldn’t tell whether she was on Dawson’s side or mine.

As soon as they left, I retreated to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot spray splashed the small stall. I quickly stepped in, hoping to wash away thoughts of Tiffany standing lost and alone by her car. I’d waited until she’d started her engine and watched her drive off. I’d thought I’d see her again. I had thought maybe this time I’d helped. But maybe I’d delivered her to her killer.

I dried off, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and walked toward the painting of Della. Tiffany had said she’d not listened to conversations in the diner, but I didn’t believe her. I’d bet money she’d heard or seen something that years of drug use had buried. A girlfriend accomplice or a reincarnated Della could have a lot to lose.

I stared at the delicate brushstrokes of the face that had stalked me for a decade. I covered it again, lifted it, and after slipping on flip-flops, carried it outside. With it propped against my leg, I locked the warehouse and glanced up again at Margo’s darkened apartment window.

I carried the painting across the four-lane road, pausing midway as I waited for the light. When I reached her building, I pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah,” the attendant said.

“This is Scarlett Crosby. I was here yesterday with Margo Larsen. I promised her a painting, and I wanted to drop it off.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“She’s not here.”

“I don’t suppose you could let me put it in her apartment. It’s heavy as hell.”

“Can’t let you in.”

“It’s worth fifty bucks to me not to carry this back across the street. And she’s expecting it.”

The door buzzed open. The attendant stood behind his desk, studying me. “I’ve seen you around.”

“I live across the street.” To add flavor, I smiled and fished out the fifty bucks.

“You’re going to put it in the apartment and that’s it, right?”

“You can watch me the entire time.”

He reached for keys. “Let’s do this quick.”

I followed him to the elevator and set the painting down as we waited on the door. When he opened it, I lifted the painting. The paint around the eyes was still tacky, so I was careful not to brush it against my body.

When we reached the fifth floor, he led the way to 512 and unlocked the door with a master key. I flipped on the light and moved past him, carrying the painting past an air mattress to the kitchen counter. Carefully, I set down the painting and leaned it so that it faced the front door. As soon as Margo entered and turned on the light, she’d see it.

“It’s pretty,” the attendant said.

“Thanks.” I walked to the window and stared across the street to my apartment. It was a perfect view for anyone spying on me.

“Now we got to get out of here.”

“Sure.”

We rode the elevator down in silence. Back in my studio, I reached for my sketchbook and began to redraw Della’s face. This time I drew narrower cheeks and shorter light-colored hair. This would be Della #56.

As I stared at the roughed-in face, I glanced toward the building across the street. The lights in Margo’s place remained dark. How could she be Della? It was insane to think that she was.

“She’s not Della. She’s not Della.”

And yet the feeling that she was my former cellmate would not leave me alone.