Page 43 of There is No Devil

“He’s perceptive,” I tell Cole. “Not like that first idiot that interviewed me. Don’t underestimate him.”

“I don’t underestimate anyone,” Cole says. “I’m not as arrogant as you think.”

“But you don’t think Shaw will be here tonight.”

Cole shrugs. “If he’s smart, he’s laying low. And besides, he killed four girls, one more than usual. He should be satiated.”

I don’t like Erin being grouped in as one of the four, like she’s just another grape on the stem shoveled into Shaw’s mouth. Erin had talent—she made watercolors so beautiful you could weep. She was funny and blunt. She loved to tease me and Frank, but never to the point of actually hurting our feelings.

She loved her life, and Shaw had no fucking right to take it from her.

I’m sure all those other girls were just as unique, just as wonderful, if only I’d had the chance to know them.

“I want that cop to catch him,” I say. “I want him to rot in a cell for a hundred years.”

Cole doesn’t bother to reply. We both know his opinion on the subject.

We’re pulling up to the gallery. The line stretches all the way down the street. People crane toward the windows, several girls trying to take pictures through the glass.

“Why is it so busy?” I ask Cole. It was supposed to be a cocktail party, nothing out of the ordinary.

Cole marches right up to the doors. He’s probably never waited in a line in his life.

Betsy Voss waves us inside. She’s bouncing with excitement, her body as buoyant as her bouffant of lacquered hair.

“Come in, come in!” she trills. “You’ve got to see this, Cole. You’re going to love it!”

Venom – Little Simz

Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple

The reason for her excitement, and everyone else’s, immediately becomes apparent.

The entire gallery space is filled top to bottom, wall to wall, with a brilliant technicolor spiderweb. The thick strands are woven up and down, all around, with large enough gaps between that the guests can walk through, clambering in and under the installation. You’re forced to interact with it, to grip and touch the thick ropes. The puffy, loose-woven wool manages to look sticky and dripping, but also soft and enticing. The eye-searing shades of magenta, lemon, and teal are so vivid and wet that the strands might have been spray-painted via some sort of pressure-cannon.

The aggressive color envelops you, making your eyes burn and your head spin. You’re trapped inside a rainbow prism that seems to go on and on forever, disorienting and intoxicating.

Cole stares around at the installation, not touching anything.

We both know the architect of this piece. The signature colors give it away. But it’s nothing I could have imagined from him.

“Guess he’s not laying low,” I murmur to Cole.

Cole is unusually silent. I think I know the reason why.

Cole’s disdain for Shaw has been apparent to me since before I ever met either of them. He’s never spoken of Shaw’s work with any level of respect.

But for the first time, Shaw has created something truly impressive. Something even Cole can’t deny.

It’s slapping us right in the face.

Marcus York comes bustling up to Cole, his frizzy orange hair puffing out on both sides like a clown wig, an impression not helped by York’s short legs and too-tight waistcoat stretched across his large belly.

“Oh ho, Cole, someone’s putting you on notice!”

“What?” Cole snaps irritably.

---