Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,109

Pauline’s head, jumping to the wrong conclusion. What if she shared her suspicions with Karl?

“Jesse and I are not lovers,” she said firmly. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Pauline glanced at the blood on the cot again, as if she could assess whether it was menstrual blood or not.

“I’m worried about you,” she said. “I think you’re playing with fire and are too naïve to know it.”

“Nonsense.” Anna forced herself to stand up and walk toward the mural. Her knees were rubber. “I really need to get back to work,” she said, a tremulous hand reaching for her palette.

Pauline stood there another moment or two. Then she said something kind or worried or … Anna wasn’t sure what words came out of her friend’s mouth. She was thinking of how Pauline said she was playing with fire. Pauline had no idea the magnitude of the fire Anna was playing with.

“I’m glad you’re staying home tonight,” Miss Myrtle said when Anna returned to the house that evening. The landlady sat at her drop-down desk in the living room, writing something. A letter. Something. Anna didn’t know or care. “You spend far too much time in that horrid warehouse,” Miss Myrtle continued. “I was mortified to discover you weren’t in your bed last night. I hope no one knows you were there all night. I don’t ever want you to stay out like that again. Do you hear me?”

“Uh-huh.” I killed someone, Anna thought. Not even twenty-four hours ago, I took a life. She remembered Martin’s fatherless daughters. She rested her fingertips on the back of an upholstered chair to keep herself upright.

Miss Myrtle frowned. “Are you ill?” she asked.

“I’m all right.” Anna’s voice sounded husky. She’d used it very little that day.

“Are you sure?” Miss Myrtle stood up and came forward to rest the back of her cool fingers on Anna’s forehead. “You’re not warm, but you look … quite pale.” She seemed concerned now rather than angry. “Can I make you some tea?”

Anna shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. She needed to get away from Miss Myrtle’s scrutiny. She couldn’t carry on a normal conversation for one more minute. “Just tired.” If Miss Myrtle studied her face any longer, Anna was certain she’d know what she’d done. She turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to bed,” she said.

In her room, she shut the door, then leaned her back against it.

You took a life, a voice accused her.

He was a beast, another voice answered.

“Stop!” she pleaded out loud, then whispered, “Please stop. Please please please. He was going to kill me!”

She crawled into her bed, still fully clothed, face unwashed, teeth unbrushed. She hugged her arms around her body. She ached all over. She had bruises on her arms, her shoulders, her throat. The inside of her thighs were turning black with them. She was so sore between her legs. Torn up. She knew her body would heal. Her mind, her heart, her soul, though—she wasn’t so sure.

Chapter 49

MORGAN

July 20, 2018

Oliver pointed to the wall adjacent to the mural. “I think we should hang Anna’s original sketch there,” he said. “That’s where I envision the wall text for the mural, so the sketch will be a cool addition. What do you think?”

I liked knowing that Oliver valued my opinion. “I think that’s perfect,” I said. “What are you going to say in the wall text?

He shrugged. “I think we admit that we don’t understand why Anna Dale added the objects and—as Lisa suggested—we invite the viewer to examine both the sketch and the mural and draw his or her own conclusions,” he said. “Then a biographical text will tell what we know—or rather, what we don’t know—about the reclusive artist.”

“‘Reclusive’ isn’t really the right word, though, is it?” I asked. “I mean, we don’t know if she was a recluse. We don’t even know if she was crazy. We only know that she did some things we don’t understand. Maybe ‘mysterious’ is a better word.” I looked at Oliver to see an amused expression on his face.

“You trying to take over my job?” he teased.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I have enough on my plate already. And I need to get back to work.”

“Me, too,” he said. “But first”—he pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out to me—“let’s exchange music for half an hour.”

I looked at his phone as if he’d lost his mind.

“C’mon,” he said. “You said I need to listen to Nathan’s music. Just thirty