Page 68 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

A dead body.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dead body before today.

Should I be freaking the hell out by now?

Oh, I am. Judging by how my breathing is coming out as erratically uneven, I’m freaking out so bad that my chest is threatening to drop dead along with this dead guy. What the hell am I supposed to be doing now? Call the cops? Pretend as if I didn’t just see a corpse and act as if I’m having the time of my life.

I just sold three of my paintings, so I should be fucking ecstatic, right? I even went back to call my mum and tell her the good news.

But instead of hearing the sounds of my mum screaming with joy, I heard the horrific sound of a grown-ass man screaming with fear and pain. Then, when I went to investigate, who did I see that was the reasoning behind those screams?

Fucking Briar.

My fucking migraine is in human form.

The girl I met years ago at the airport with her stupid pink duffle bag.

I knew Briar looked familiar. It wasn’t just from my stepdad’s emails. It was because I had met her in person before. It finally hit me that Briar was her because she was wearing a mask covering her whole face except for her eyes.

Those eyes.

When she removed her mask to reveal her face, I almost had a heart attack, confirming what I already knew. What were the odds that the first girl I met all those years ago was also the woman I couldn’t stand today?

I could still feel her lips lightly pressed against mine when she tried to calm me down. She tasted like the forbidden fruit, an intoxicating blend of danger and temptation. Instead of pushing her away and calling her a fucking murderer, I kissed her back.

I’m fucked.

I hate her. Her and her fucking pink duffel bag and her stupid caramel-colored bright eyes.

What was it that she told me to do? Not tell the cops anything? Well, fuck that. Of course, I have to tell them everything. Someone was just murdered.

And I’m pretty sure I know who did it.

*-*-*-*

I lied.

I didn’t tell the authorities shit. I walked out of that room, called my mum about the good news about my paintings, pretended to walk around, and puked my guts out when I walked into that room again. The man’s body was getting paler by the minute.

By then, I figured it would have been the perfect time to face the cops while my voice was shaky from barfing and my adrenaline was shot up.

As soon as they arrived and questioned me, I lied. Sort of.

I told them I called my mum, heard screaming, noticed the door was slightly ajar, and walked in. Luckily, they didn’t suspect me. Why should they? I didn’t do anything.

Oscar did an upsettingly good job of spinning the lie that the man — I found out his name was Charlie — was deeply troubled and drunk. Surprisingly, they brushed it off as an accidental suicide. How, I don’t know. But I could have sworn I saw the chief and Oscar subtly nodding at each other as if they had some sort of understanding with one another.

Which got me thinking: What the actual fuck? Why the fuck did I leave my home country for a place that is deeply corrupted by influential bad people? Who can I trust when those who are meant to be heroes are revealed as villains all along?

If I want to continue being a good person, does that mean I must also embrace the bad?

I can’t even look at Oscar and Nat the same way again. Were they there all those years ago attacking my stepdad?

I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, making me jump. I whirl around and back away immediately, seeing Oscar staring down at me with an unreadable expression.

“Are you good, Rurik?” he asks, keeping his hand on my shoulder despite my attempts to step away.

I can't help but let out a disbelieving chuckle.

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