As he opened his gas lamp and allowed the flames to consume the parchment, the artist drew his final breath, the consumption taking him before he could make the words true.
FORTY-TWO
The killer approaches Noah asmy fingers close round the tiny doll’s head that was once part of a bracelet. Once I realized the last victim had been gender swapped, I started thinking about why a killer would make such a dramatic switch in their victims so late in the process, and now I see the red flags stacking up—the shoplifting, the drugs, the project allowing strangers to objectify and deface her as a form of art.
Scarlett.
“I know you’re in here,” she singsongs, stopping in front of the camera. She adjusts the position, pointing it at Noah and bending down to look through the viewfinder as she continues talking. “Impressive use of an attack alarm, by the way. I suppose you’ve found some way to get the police here too. Well, I’d like to be gone by then.”
She presses the camera button and a loud snap echoes through the room, followed by the whirring sound of a print being ejected. She removes it and walks toward Noah, where she bends down and dips the Polaroid in the container filled with his blood before taking it over to the final portrait and placing it reverently on the easel. For the first time I notice that each of The Four have beensupplemented with a shining red photograph. I’m glad I can’t see the distorted images from here.
“All done,” she calls without turning round. “You can come out now, Fliss.”
“Sorry to wreck your plans, Scarlett,” I say, stepping forward just far enough so she can see me. “You knew it was me?”
She turns, a slow, creeping smile splitting her face. Her breathy, Earth Mother demeanor is nowhere to be seen now; even her usual bohemian clothing has been replaced with a hooded black top and trousers.
“Oh, please, I’ve never met anyone as nosy as you. I knew you’d started poking around as soon as you told us about finding Helen.” She busies herself moving the tripod away from the scene as I try to think of how to reply. I need to keep her talking—killers love doing that, don’t they?
“Helen’s murder wasn’t planned, was it?”
“No.” Scarlett cocks her head, amused. “It wasn’t. But that first night, when the self-portrait was put on display, it was a sign that I was meant to begin. I mean, it’s been missing for generations and it appears whenI’min Blackwood? It was so obvious that it had appeared just for me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, absorbing the details of the scene. Her hair is slicked back in a low bun, and she’s wearing clear medical gloves. She even has shoe covers on. Apart from the doll’s head I found on the stairs, she’s covered her tracks. I wonder if she knows she left one behind.
“The artist killed those women because he wanted to live, to become immortal,” she explains casually, not as though she’stelling me why she’s on a killing spree. “One of my art classes at college was all about The Four, and I was fascinated by the painter behind the portraits, so I did my own research on him. There’s a diary in a library in London, you know, in the Waite collection. He was so much more interesting than his subjects—they were all talentless nobodies who wouldn’t have survived in New York anyway.”
“That’s not true,” I spit, realizing too late I’m rising to herbait.
“No? He did them a favor. He did it to save himself because he was sick with tuberculosis, and he found a ritual that he thought would cure him, maybe even make him immortal. That’s why he collected their blood and hair, something about taking their life force to save himself. It obviously didn’t work, but his legacy lived on, even if he didn’t. Art is powerful like that.”
There’s a look in her eyes that frightens me more than anything else in the room. “And that’s what you want to do?” I ask, edging closer to Noah. “Create a legacy? Is that why you’re doingthis?”
“I’m sure the press will think so! I can’t tell you how much I’ve loved all the attention my art has been getting.” She thinks murdering human beings isart? Jesus. She really is deranged. She giggles, a sound that makes my blood run cold as she leans in, like she’s telling me a secret. “There are different types of immortality, especially these days.”
“You want to be famous,” I say flatly, unable to hide the disgust in my voice. I think about Helen, about Jen, and how Alessandra was dead and bound to that chair. Kind, generousAlessandra. I want to charge at Scarlett, but I need to keep a cool head. I need to undermine her. “That’s what all this has been about?”
“I want myartto be famous.” She sweeps an arm around the setup. “A modern interpretation of The Four that will be splashed over every news outlet in the world. The New Four should feel honored. They might have died in body, but their spirits will live for eternity.”
“But no one will know whoyouare, you’ve hidden your tracks so well.” I need to dent her ego, to make her question herself so I can distract her. “Doesn’t it bother you that other people could come forward and claim your work as their own?”
Scarlett’s smile fades. “No, because they won’t.”
“Of course they will,” I say, sliding closer to the exit. My ears prick at what sounds like distant sirens. Izzy must have managed to alert the police. I just need to keep Scarlett talking and then get out to the balcony when they arrive. “There will be some guy who doesn’t have the balls to do what you did claiming he’s the killer. The press will be all over him! Nobody will know it was you, and your legacy will be lost forever.” I pause before I deliver the kill shot with a smile. “I mean, it will be more believable that a man was behind this.”
That really pisses her off.
“As if I’d let a fuckingmantake credit for my art. Do you know how much planning went into this?” Scarlett hisses, gesturing to the scene.
“Actually, I do. This scene is exactly how I know Helen’s murder wasn’t planned. And I know that Jen wasn’t supposed to beyour second victim. You drugged the sangria so you could target Izzy. You thought you’d have more time for that one, but I saved Izzy before you could get your claws into her.”
“It was supposed to be you, actually,” Scarlett replies so casually I don’t register what she says for a second, until my hands start to shake. “I didn’t know you’d be Little Miss Sober. I roofied both your glasses so I could take my time bleeding and posing you after everyone went home, but you stopped drinking as soon as I did. I thought I might have some time with Izzy once you were asleep, but you kicked up such a fuss when you found her that we all had to go home. I even left you one of the little paper flowers I put in Jen’s hair as a souvenir of what could have been.” My stomach drops and she clocks the look on my face. “Oh, boo-hoo, you thought it was from lover boy, didn’t you? Nope, all me!” She walks behind the portraits and picks up something from the floor. It glints in the candlelight. “Anyway, when it didn’t go to plan with you and Izzy, I settled for poor old Jen. She tried to put up a fight when she came round and realized I’d tied her up, but I used an old trick of mine to shut her up. It’s the same one I used on the agency waitress. Too easy.”
“Helen,” I rasp. “Her name was Helen.”
“Whatever.”
Scarlett walks back around toward Noah, who is still slumped in his chair. I have no idea if he’s awake as she closes in on him. “You learn a lot about life and death living on a farm. For example”—she points to a spot on her own throat so I can see the curved blade she’s holding—“did you know that if you goin right here, you can kill someone instantly?”