Chapter Five SCARLETT

Chapter Five

S CARLETT

Thursday, July 11, 2024

6:00 p.m.

The dedication reception for the recreation center was packed. Judge Thompson had her fingers in a lot of political pies in this city, and when she said jump , the smart people asked how high. I was no exception. She’d saved me, and I could never turn my back on her.

Obligations aside, based on the laughter blending with the blues quartet, the guests were having a good time. God. People. Crowds. Tension radiated over my skin.

I moved toward the front door, where Simon stood checking names off a list attached to his clipboard. I held back as the line thinned, and when Simon looked up and saw me, he grinned.

“About time. I thought you were going to ditch,” he said.

I smiled. “Running late. I was finishing up a painting.” The truth was I’d been sitting in my truck for the last forty-five minutes, scraping together the reasons why I should attend.

“Everyone loves your mural.” He reached for a newspaper.

“Nice.”

“And there are already several bids on the print you donated.”

“Wonderful.”

“Reporters want to talk to you. Speaking of which, here’s last week’s article about you.”

I glanced at the front page of the style section, glimpsed my frozen smile, and rolled the paper into a cylinder. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing. I got your back.”

I scanned the crowd. “Didn’t I talk to a few of these people last week?” I’d been swamped by reporters before. All had had the glinting eyes of rabid coyotes.

He laughed. “Don’t look so pained. This is all very positive. Publicity is never a bad thing.”

“Speak for yourself.” A couple exited the front door, laughing arm in arm. The casual way they touched each other was charming, and I envied their intimacy. But I’d crossed too many bridges and was too lost to enjoy that kind of closeness.

“Better get inside. Judge is asking about you.”

“Right.”

I moved past Simon into the crowded recreation center that had been so quiet and peaceful this morning.

“Finally.”

I turned to see Judge Thompson, a tall, lean woman in her early sixties. She wore a black pantsuit with an aqua blouse that flattered a salt-and-pepper ponytail, dark skin, high cheekbones, and pearl earrings.

I had first met Judge Thompson when I was sixteen. I’d been in foster care since shortly after I’d run away from home, and though my foster mother had been kind to me, she’d had rules and expectations, two things I’d never had in my mother’s home. I’d grown accustomed to setting my own hours, attending school when it suited me, and working on my art late into the night.

This foster family didn’t believe in violence, so they locked offending kids in a windowless room called the Quiet Space. I was terrified of that room, so I was careful to follow rules.

There were other kids in the mix, and basically the girls and I got along well. One girl painted my nails a bright pink with sparkles. Another brushed my hair and twisted it into a bun. Another tried to teach me how to play guitar.

For thirty days, I’d focused on my drawing and pretended the pink sparkle nail polish, blue eye shadow, and music were important. Then a girl in the house named Serena had learned about Tanner, and she’d started gossiping about it. When she’d called me his slut, I’d punched her hard in the face, and when my foster mom tried to toss me into the Quiet Space, I’d really lost it. I broke her nose.

I ended up on the streets for a few days, living in doorways and avoiding the drug dealers and pimps. But I’d gotten arrested for shoplifting and landed back in the Judge’s court. This time she’d suggested I live with her. She had had eight other foster kids before. I wasn’t so sure, and neither was she, but I was tired of being hungry and surviving on little or no sleep. After a few tense days, I relaxed a fraction, and I think I stopped sleeping with one eye open. The Judge’s house was my first brush with normal, and even though I knew I’d never be normal , I had an inkling of what it could be.

“You’ve got quite the crowd,” I said to the Judge.

She smiled, satisfied. “Arm twisting is my superpower.”

I rubbed my forearm. “I felt the pressure.”

The Judge grinned. “You can endure a crowd for a little bit of time. And when you smile for the cameras in five minutes, I’ll release you early for time served.”

I grimaced. “Pictures.”

The Judge laughed. “You’ll survive. Don’t go far. I have two donors to thank, and then it’s showtime.”

“Terrific.”

The Judge placed her hand on my shoulder, and I only flinched a little. “Have a drink. The white wine is decent.”

“Right.” I crossed to the bar and got in the back of a line ten people deep.

“Are you the star of the evening?”

The familiar deep masculine voice had me turning toward the man I’d met here this morning. He still wore the same suit but had changed his shirt and tie. “I hope not.”

“Why?” He looked genuinely curious. “You should be proud of the work.”

“I am. Just not a fan of the attention.”

Gray eyes appeared to be cataloging every detail associated with me, including a black silk blouse, faded jeans with a raw-edge hem, and Doc Martens sandals. Gold hoops winked from my ears, and most of the paint was scrubbed from my hands. This was as good as it got for me.

However, I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t see the appreciation in his eyes again or that he was an attractive man. Oddly, I didn’t mind his attention. However, the attraction was doomed to be metaphorically strangled in the cradle.

“Hard to say no to Judge Thompson,” he said.

“You’re right about that.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Judge has ordered me to drink a glass of wine.”

He turned, plucked a glass of white wine from a waiter’s tray, and handed it to me. “Never ignore a judge’s ruling.”

“Thank you.” I sipped my wine. “What hold does she have over you?”

He laughed. “Always good to support the judges.”

“Do you handle a lot of juvenile cases?”

“I worked in the prosecutor’s office for ten years. She and I crossed paths many times. I like Judge Thompson. Fair but tough.”

“You said worked . What do you do now?”

“Criminal defense. I focus on adults. The kids are tough and heartbreaking.”

“I can only imagine.”

“That mural was a serious time commitment. You must really owe the Judge.”

“Maybe a little.”

The comment piqued his attention. What had I done to fall under the Judge’s radar? No doubt he was compiling a series of crimes in his head.

“You can see my mind working, can’t you?” he said.

“I’m likely not guilty of ninety percent of what you’re considering.”

“Now I’m curious about the ten percent.”

He was flirting with me. Subtle. Charming. And I appreciated that. Wine always loosened my bowstring nerves, but as soon as the tension eased, I put the glass down. I knew a second glass of wine would stir an unwanted, dangerously enticing curiosity about couples who held hands casually and kissed easily.

“How did your early-morning meeting go with the Judge? Did she sell you on a board position?”

When he smiled, I churned. “She did.”

“Ah. She’ll keep you busy.”

“So I’ve been told.” A beat of silence hummed between us. “How did you meet the Judge?”

There’d been a time when I made up answers to hide the past, but this time I broke with the norm and told the truth. “She was my foster mother for a couple of years.”

A brow arched. Did I not fit the mold of a foster care kid? “I’ve heard she does that.” He didn’t press me for details, but if he’d worked enough juvenile cases, he could fill in the blanks. “Looks like you turned out okay.”

Normal uncoiled and tried to rise, moving like an old woman with bad joints. “Good to know.”

Judge Thompson stepped up to a microphone in front of the mural. “Ladies and gentlemen ...”

Finally, an excuse to turn away from Luke’s sharp gaze and focus on the next challenge.

“I’m so thrilled you could be here for our dedication,” the Judge continued. “Let me offer a special thank-you to Scarlett Crosby, the artist who painted this stunning mural.”

Eyes shifted toward me, and several people clapped. I stood my ground, scrounged up a smile, and waited for them all to move on to the next thing.

“Scarlett, come up onstage with me,” the Judge said.

Tension climbed up my vertebrae, coiling around my neck and settling heavy over my shoulders. Crowds came with lots of eyes and many memories. Someone would put the pieces together. Their whispers would stir uncomfortable questions that triggered inevitable nightmares.

“It’s not a firing squad,” Luke whispered.

Annoyance snapped when I looked at him.

He grinned. “Ouch. If looks could kill.”

That tamed the anger and coaxed a smile. “That obvious?”

“Afraid so.” He leaned forward a fraction. “They can’t eat you. Find a smile on the way to the stage. Everyone is here to celebrate your work.”

Thanks to Della, I could shove my fear down until I couldn’t feel it. Later it would scratch its way to the surface, but that was a problem for another time. “You’re right. Thank you for saying that.”

His eyebrows drew together as I turned toward the stage and walked through the parting crowd. I kept my arms pressed tight to my body and my gaze on the Judge.

I stepped up on the stage, unearthed a brittle smile as the Judge detailed her dream to make this recreation center more approachable for children. She raved about the work I’d put into the mural, my dedication to my craft, blah, blah ...

When the crowd clapped, I smiled on cue, fielded a few questions about my work, and did my best to provide answers that didn’t sound surly or impatient. The reporters’ questions stuck to the project, and none delved deeper. After a decade, I always hoped my former troubles were long forgotten, pushed out of the headlines by the serial killer on Long Island and the plane that went down in the Atlantic last year. One psychologist called it “bread and circuses.” I was one of a million sensational stories that grabbed public attention for a little while and then were soon forgotten. However, those who wanted to remember me only needed a five-second internet search.

A few folks in the crowd expressed their delight at my work and thanked me for my service. A few said they’d bid on the print I’d donated. All in all, it wasn’t terrible, but the attention was too much. I made my escape out the side door less than an hour after my arrival.

As I crossed the dimming parking lot, a car’s headlights flashed, drawing my attention to a black sedan to my right. The beaming bright lights dilated my pupils, effectively blinding me. The sedan’s engine rumbled. The car didn’t move. Odd. And I didn’t like odd or being around cars.

My eyes adjusted, and I realized no one was behind the wheel. Then a thirtysomething woman with short blond hair, dressed in jeans, a silk top, and heels, weaved her way through parked cars toward the sedan. Her downcast gaze didn’t dart in my direction as the confident click of her heels telegraphed an enviable nonchalance. Door open, purse tossed on the passenger seat, and a check of her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

I’d never seen the woman before, but a shrill of recognition rattled through my body. My thoughts skipped to the portrait of Della alive with dark curly hair, a round face, and wide doe eyes. Nothing about my Della jibed with this woman, but an oily familiarity coiled in my chest. My breath caught in my throat as my thumb slid to the button on the pepper spray attached to my key chain.

The woman closed her door, fastened her seat belt, and slid the car into gear.

I never walked through a parking lot without my keys and pepper spray in hand. And I never looked at my phone. Never. My focus was always on my surroundings. I never lost track of my truck. I memorized landmarks, remembered lot numbers, and counted spaces to the end of the row.

As the car zoomed past me, I wanted to yell out a warning. Be careful! Pay attention! But I didn’t. I stood silent, wondering why I was suddenly so worried for a woman I didn’t know.

“You all right?”

Luke’s voice startled me, and I turned to see his gaze idling on me. His expression was part curious and a little concerned.

Smiles always defused worries, so I found a wry grin. “Lost my truck for a second. Not used to all the vehicles.”

“Easy to get turned around.” He moved toward me, his stride confident and steady. “You bugged out quick.”

Absently, I threaded my keys through my fingers. “I did my due diligence. Time to jet.”

“Have any other volunteer projects on the table?”

“No, time to focus on the paying work. Got a little behind.” That wasn’t true. I was caught up because all I did was paint and work out.

“What do you do when you’re not painting or volunteering your time for the Judge?”

“Rock climbing is my latest challenge.”

“I work out at a gym on Lindsay Avenue. There’s a wall there.”

“That’s my wall.”

“I can’t picture you climbing.”

“Why?”

“You strike me as the cerebral type. I see you visiting art museums and exhibits.”

“I do, but that’s kind of like work. On the rocks, it’s just me, the crevices, and the present.”

“Keeps you focused.”

“Mind can’t wander.”

“Does it tend to wander?” he asked.

I’d said more than I’d intended. “You ask a lot of questions, Luke.”

A hand slid into his pocket as bulky shoulders folded in a fraction in quasi contrition. “Hazard of the business. And I’m interested in you.”

His awareness was part of the reason that I’d exited the party early. I’d been hoping to avoid this conversation. “That so?”

Luke stepped toward me until a few feet separated us. He made no move to touch me, but his energy pulsed against my skin.

I gripped the keys tighter.

“Would you like to grab a drink sometime?” he asked.

A drink. Easy if I kept it to one, which I would. A busy, public venue would ease my worries. And I would meet him. And then something would trigger me, I’d freak, and the date would go off the rails as they all did. But I’d spent too much time alone lately, so what the heck? Muscles puckered in my gut. “Where do you have in mind?”

“Pick a place close to your studio or apartment.”

“Lito’s?” It was a few blocks from my studio. Well-lit parking and several exits.

“Great choice. It’s close to my office. Saturday?”

“I’m working until about five, but I can be there by six.”

His lips curled into a smile. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. See you then, Scarlett.”

“Okay.” I pressed my key remote and my truck lights blinked. “This is me.”

“Excellent.”

Shit. “Terrific.”

Luke waited until I was behind the wheel, seat belt on, and the engine started. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, his attention had shifted to a black SUV.

Drive time provided the opportunity to nurture future regrets about Luke. If I didn’t blow the date after drinks and conversation, he’d ask me out again. He’d try to kiss me. Then I’d panic, say no as a reflex, and vanish. Ghosting was my thing.

I parked behind my warehouse under the security light above the back door. This time of night, it wasn’t hard to find parking. It could be an issue on weekend evenings, when people came into the area to drink at the breweries or bars and decided an open alley was fair game. But on a Thursday night, I had it all to myself.

Keys in hand, purse on my shoulder, I slid out of the truck and locked it immediately. I crossed quickly to the door and pressed in the door code. Scattered by the door was a pile of crumpled newspapers. As I collected them, I noted the headline referencing the recreation center. I unfurled a page and realized it was the article on me. I balled up the brittle paper, wondering if this was someone providing a copy or someone screwing with me.

Inside, I secured the main latch and then the secondary ones. I tossed the newspapers in the trash can, washed my hands, and kicked off my shoes. Residents on my block knew me well enough to kid me about my door locks, but the conversations generally ended there.

I fished my phone from my purse and realized Tiffany Patterson had texted me.

I paused and read the text.

I need to talk to you. It’s important.

Tiffany. What did she want now? My guess was she was coming off a high and looking for a new hit.

Bracelets rattled as I ran long fingers through my hair. This was the fourth text from Tiffany in as many weeks. Each time I’d responded, she’d not returned my messages. She flaked often, so I never gave it much thought. Where are you? Are you okay?

I stared at the display, willing Tiffany to respond.

But the phone’s screen remained blank. No words, no bubbles, no sign that Tiffany had seen my text. Dawson’s visit churned fresh worries, and my mind drifted to darker places.

I sat on my couch and leaned back. Not so weird that someone would leave a copy of the article, but these had been balled up. It was likely innocent. Trash happened in cities. No need to panic, right? All normal.

But I wasn’t normal. Hard lessons had taught me to make the difficult decisions so I could survive. Plenty would judge me for the decisions I’d made when I was with Tanner. They’d wonder why I got into the van, why I didn’t fight harder, or why I didn’t walk into Mike’s Diner screaming for help immediately. People liked to believe that the world was separated into black and white or good and evil. But it wasn’t so clearly divided. A spectrum of grays linked morality to sin. We all had the power to dip into the dark side if it meant living or dying.

I rose, changed into a large T-shirt and paint-splattered cutoff jean shorts, and tied my hair into a ponytail. In my studio room, I uncovered Della’s portrait. I checked my paintbrush, scrubbing the dry bristles over the back of my hand as I stared into the dark eyes glaring back at me.

Della knew me better than anyone. Della knew my darkest secrets, the compromises I’d made to stay alive. She knew the shame I’d never shared with my mother, the police, the Judge, or any therapist. Della had witnessed what I’d do if driven to the brink, and she was the only person on this earth who wouldn’t judge me, because she had also embraced the darkness to endure. We were two sides of the same coin.

Victim and captor.

Frenemies for life.

That night I dreamed of the dark, damp basement room and chains encircling my ankle.