Page 55 of Long Way Down

Forearms that betrayed his physical strength, she reminded herself. Their rapist was a strong man, one who’d overpowered his victims, and Tobias certainly fit that bill.

“Why don’tyouask him out, then?” she said, and Contreras’s quiet laugh said he hadn’t missed the note of bitterness in her voice.

It took several minutes for all the students to get situated at their easels. All the students save two were college-age. Of the older adults, there was Tobias, obviously, and an elegant, suntanned woman with a long, gray ponytail, stick-thin and wearing fashionably flowy clothes. Someone tackling her art dreams later in life.

Once everyone was perched on a stool before an easel, Dubois went to the door and ushered in a young woman wearing a bathrobe: the day’s model. At the center of the room, she shed her robe and arranged herself on the chaise, naked. The lamplight, Melissa could now tell, made for interesting shadows.

For long minutes, the only sounds were the scratch of pencils on paper, the occasional hum, or exhale, or a quiet sneeze-and-bless-you exchange. Melissa studied the artists the way they studied the girl on the chaise. All were focused, heads ducking to the side to peer around easels, gazes narrowed and faces pinched with concentration. The gray-haired woman had her back turned to them, and thus her canvas; she laid down thick, effortless lines with charcoal, bypassing the pencil in favor of bold, finished strokes, head tipping birdlike every time she glanced toward her subject.

One boy, long hair tied back in a low bun, had his tongue stuck in his cheek, the skin poking out comically. His brows were drawn tight together and he reached for his eraser more than once, lips working as he muttered under his breath. He seemed frustrated. A sign of a temper? A frustration that could bloom into physical violence? Or perfectionism at war with a tricky pose?

Another boy had a beanie pulled low on his head, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, body moving in a drowsy way that seemed dedicated to only the most necessary of actions. His wrists were thinner than hers, hands almost delicate, and even if she shouldn’t, Melissa dismissed him on sight alone.

Then there was Tobias. He was tall enough that he didn’t have to peer around his easel; could merely lift his gaze over the top of his canvas each time he needed a reference; quick flashes of dark eyes and a flicker of lashes, his expression one of total focus. Melissa couldn’t see his sketch, but each stroke of his pencil worked hand, wrist, arm, and also chest; the little tendons above his clavicles flexed as he worked.

She’d sincerely hoped that getting laid last night would fix this. Pongo would be delighted to know that she needed another round or three.

Would he be jealous, she wondered idly, if he knew she’d pictured another man? That she sat here now admiring someone else? She didn’t think so, and that inspired a surprising drop in her belly, a quiet, sinking feeling. Disappointment seemed impossible in regards to him, and yet…

Dubois moved so quietly that she didn’t hear the patter of his shoes until he drew up between their stools. He stood with hands linked behind him, and his voice was low and not carrying. “I assume,” he said, “that it is a man you’re looking for, and not a woman?”

“Hm,” Melissa hummed, noncommittal.

“As you can see,” he continued, “I have only three in this class.”

Contreras consulted their printed student list. “Which one’s Douglas Waxman?”

“The one with the hat.” He inclined his head toward the boy in the beanie. “Very talented.” His lip curled. “But he’s, well, you could smell it on him if you stood close enough.”

“Likes his herb, huh?” Contreras asked. “Don’t worry, we’re not those sorts of cops.”

“He lacks drive,” Dubois said, lamenting. “A shame. His linework is brilliant.”

“And him,” Contreras said, motioning toward the boy with the eraser, his hand sweeping angrily at his paper to clear it, his frown pronounced. “Daniel Loraine?”

“Oui.” Dubois sighed. “He is a great lover and appreciator of art…but creation does not come naturally to him.”

“He’s not very good?” Melissa asked.

“That’s a bit blunt. But, he does tend to struggle, yes.”

“Why does he stay in the program, then? I thought this major was for serious, career-oriented artists only.”

“Yes. But Mr. Loraine’s family has significant means.”

“Rich as the Wheatlys?” Contreras asked, and she was glad she hadn’t had to tip her country-born hand by asking the crass question.

“More so. By a large margin.”

Would a rich boy have reason to assault women? In her experience, money smoothed away even the most obvious faults when it came to romantic pairings, and Daniel wasn’t bad looking. Even if his personality was garbage, he shouldn’t have had trouble finding chicks to bang.

But maybe it was about obsession. Maybe, just as he pursued an artform to which he wasn’t suited, he’d wanted women who didn’t want him back. Certain traits spilled over across all areas of life.

She made a note of such in her pad. “Did he interact much with Lana or Lynn?”

“Not more so than anyone. It’s a sociable group – everyone very polite and encouraging of one another. It was not uncommon for Lana to receive admiring remarks as class broke down: her pieces are always the most evocative.” He spoke with pride, as if her accomplishments were his own. “I saw Daniel ask her for advice a few times.”

Melissa made another note.

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