Page 30 of Caper Crush
Star Catering texts me that I have a job next Monday. I confirm yes.
Takashi raises a fist. “Faito!”
“Five weeks is not a long time in the scheme of things, Miranda, but it may be enough. In cybersecurity, we often use decoys. We call them honeypots; we create these fictitious machines to lure attackers,” Takashi says. “Is there another painting that can serve as a decoy? Can you say that another painting works for the Vertex Art Exhibit? That may cause the person to do something revealing.”
“I’m not sure I want the person to hurt me again. And I can’t think of another painting I could credibly use for the Vertex Art Exhibit. But it’s a good idea. I’ll try to think of one. Maybe I can just say that the contrast betweenFriendsandGoing for It 10:50is enough.”
“I’ll tell Tony to tell the theater crew that we can sell a different painting.” Takashi surveys their collection of paintings. “One I don’t mind losing.”
William and I thank Takashi for dinner and leave his apartment. Outside, the rain is pouring down. We open the umbrella borrowed from Takashi. William holds it over both of us as we amble down the block toward my brownstone apartment, trying to keep our distance within the umbrella-prescribed circle.
“You’re getting wet,” I say. “You should hold it over yourself.” I stand closer to William so the umbrella covers more of both of us. Our arms touch. The city smells of wet rain, refreshed and clean, a new beginning.
The red traffic lights shimmer in the downpour. The wheels of passing cars make slapping sounds as they drive through the puddles. We both walk slowly.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“Tribeca,” he says.
I skirt around a pool of water and bump lightly into William. Our glances meet. We both look away. I concentrate on avoiding puddles.
“Hmm … I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight.” I sigh. “I have to think about who hates me enough to sabotage my career and my uncle’s dreams.”
“What do you usually do when you can’t sleep?”
“Paint. My art studio is in our living room. But I’m too depressed to paint now. I’m even low on the paint colors I feel. Although at least I’d have a title:Devastated 11 p.m.”
“What paint colors do you feel now?”
“Black, indigo, sepia, and Payne’s grey.”
“Those are very different colors and feelings fromHigh Tide 4:30andPlaying Around 1:30.”
I glance at him. “Yes.” A frisson of awareness skitters through me—of him, so close.
He reaches out his hand, then pulls back. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you can take off?”
“That’s the benefit of running my own business,” he says. “I’m the boss.”
I’m stuck with him. My heart doesn’t sink at the thought.
We reach the door to my building. Neither of us says anything. The wind rustles the tree branches above, and some loud splats hit our umbrella cover. I should go. I wave goodbye and enter my building.
Tessa is asleep. I wash my hands off in our small kitchen. Some brushes dry in a glass jam jar by the sink.That walk with William was … fluttery.I shake my head and open up my laptop to look for more art show possibilities.
The doorbell rings. The video camera monitor of the foyer shows William standing outside. I run down the stairs and open the front door.
The torchiere by our front door casts a warm circle of light. The smell of light rain and fresh laundry from the dryer that vents out the front of our building fills the air.
“Did you forget something?” I ask.
“No, I just popped by an art store and bought you some paints.” He hands me a bag.
I stare at him in shock.
He quirks an eyebrow.
