Page 67 of There Are No Saints

“Spoken like your father,” York laughs.

I loathe comparisons to my father.

A savvy operator, York sees my lips tighten and swiftly changes the subject.

“I was telling Sonia here that we have an exciting opportunity in the offing. The city is putting up two million for a monumental sculpture for Corona Heights Park. We’ll be accepting designs all next month. I expect you’ll want to throw your hat in the ring. Shaw too, I’d wager.”

“Where is Shaw?” I interject, glancing at Sonia. “He never misses New Voices.”

Because he’d never miss fucking one of those new voices.

Sonia shrugs. “His name was on the guest list . . .”

Though I’d rather delay Shaw’s collision with Mara, his unexplained absence is worse.

I’m in a foul mood, more agitated than I’ve been in months. I keep wondering where Mara went, what she’s doing at this moment. And I could not give less of a fuck what York is yammering on about.

“This is your chance to put your mark on this city once and for all,” York says pompously. “Get your name out there.”

I smile thinly. “I’m not sure how widely I want my name to be known.”

“Then you shouldn’t be so damn talented,” York guffaws. “You’ve got a month to draw up your proposal—don’t miss the deadline. You know I’ll put in a good word for you.”

I suppress the sneer that arises at the idea that I need Marcus York to talk up my design.

Instead, I feel the buzz of my phone in my pocket and I snatch it out, besieged by the irrational idea that Mara might have texted me.

Close . . . it’s a motion notification for the camera inside her studio.

Good. She ditched the guy and decided to get some work done. How industrious of her.

It’s not enough to know where she is—I need to see her.

“Excuse me,” I say to Sonia, interrupting York mid-sentence. York frowns, a hint of the shark peering out from under his lowered brows.

I slip past them both, heading back into the empty galleries that were roped off for the show. I weave my way through abstract sculptures on plinths and large color-blocked canvases.

I want to be alone so I can watch her. Is she starting a new painting? I told her she should continue her series of saint-inspired portraits. My curiosity to see what she comes up with next far outstrips my interest in any of the art hanging all around me.

My eyes are glued to the phone screen.

The security camera feed loads at last, and I have a live stream of Mara’s studio in full color, right before my eyes.

She’s not alone.

She’s brought that fucking guy into her studio. MY studio.

My fingers clench around the phone so hard I hear the glass screen groaning.

Mara and the guy are talking. She’s taken two beers out of the mini-fridge and they’re sipping their drinks, Mara gesturing with her free hand as she traces in the air the shapes that she intends to draw on the fresh blank canvas set upon its easel.

Is she telling him about the series? Telling him what she plans to do next?

I can hear the low murmur of their voices but not make out the precise words.

Mara opens several canisters of paint, showing him the colors inside. He dips his finger into the violet paint and dabs it on her nose. Mara laughs, wiping it off with the back of her hand.

I’ll fucking kill him.

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