Tonya sipped the drink, expression intent. “She was beautiful except for those teeth. She talked about getting braces but was afraid they’d turn the guys off.”

Yvette pushed the paper away, unable to look at the representation a moment longer. She realized she was shaking. And that she was scared.

“What do we do now? Go to the police?” Even as she asked the question, she wondered if Tonya’s word would be enough to convince them.

The other woman’s response seemed to echo her thoughts. “We need proof that the creep writing you those letters was also writing Jess.”

“How do we do that?”

“You talk to Autumn tonight, and I’ll do a little snooping.”

Saturday, May 5, 2007

8:25 p.m.

It’d been a quiet week. Blessedly so. No notes or packages from the Artist. No mysterious women claiming to be somebody’s mother stealing keys or breaking in.

Yvette wondered if the reconstruction in the paper had scared him off. If he had, indeed, murdered Jessica Skye, maybe knowing she had been found and that the police were investigating had made him decide to take off.

She hadn’t exactly lowered her guard, but she had relaxed it.

She’d spoken to Autumn. The dancer remembered Jess, but like Gia, didn’t recall her saying she had a freaky fan or that she was feeling threatened or uncomfortable about anything.

Autumn hadn’t heard from the other dancer since Katrina, but figured she’d blown out of town as Katrina blew in. Like just about everyone else in the Big Easy.

Yvette had shown her the likeness from the newspaper, but Autumn had been less certain it was Jessica. The description fit, but she remembered Jess being much prettier.

Yvette had vowed to put all thoughts of the Artist aside for the evening. She had taken a day shift so she could have the night off. It was the last Art Walk of the season, when the galleries throughout the art district coordinated their show openings, serving wine and cheese to art lovers who strolled from one exhibit to the next.

Yvette loved Art Walks. She loved the diversity of the crowd, from the young and old, rich and poor, traditional to pretty damn whacked-and everything in between. The only common thread between them, an appreciation for the arts.

And she totally got off sipping wine with strangers and pretending to be someone she wasn’t-sophisticated and smart.

Yvette left the Gallery 1-1-1 and started toward Pieces. She walked with a couple she had been chatting to about the previous gallery’s exhibit of Katrina-inspired monoprints.

She acknowledged to herself that she’d had too much to drink. Her head buzzed pleasurably and her feet felt light as air. She parted from the other couple and made her way into Pieces.

Works by Shauna M.

The paintings were big, bold and energetic. Yvette decided right off that she wanted to buy one, though it would have to be a small one-she was simply running out of wall space.

She caught sight of the featured artist, who was easy to pick out as she was surrounded by admirers. Yvette tilted her head. Pretty and petite, with dark hair and a brilliant smile, Shauna M. didn’t look that much older than her.

Yvette gazed at the other woman, a pinch of envy in the pit of her gut. She used to draw a lot. When she was supposed to be listening to her teachers. When her parents left her alone. After her mother’s accident, to escape her sorrow-and her fear.

She had dreamed of being an artist one day.

It would have been a stupid thing for her to pursue. She didn’t have the talent. Her drawings had been little more than childish doodles. When she’d made the mistake of sharing her dream, her father had told her so. To spare her the pain of wishful thinking, he’d said.

It hurt to remember. How pitying he had been. And how amused. He had teased her for years afterward.

Swallowing hard, Yvette shifted her gaze. A man was with Shauna M., his hand possessively on her shoulder. He was intensely handsome, with dark hair and eyes. Angular, chiseled face. An artist himself, she would bet. He had the “look.”

She wanted that, Yvette acknowledged. To be Shauna M. To have what she had-the show, the accolades, the guy.

Suddenly the man turned his head. His dark gaze seemed to search her out. They stared at each other. She felt her face flood with color. As if reading her thoughts, his lips lifted in a mocking smile.

Embarrassed, she turned quickly away, pretending to look for someone. She spotted the bar and started for it. Halfway there, she heard a voice she recognized.

Detective Killian.

Yvette stopped and turned in the direction of the voice. The woman stood not twelve feet from her. Detective Malone was with her. They seemed to be admiring a painting. Seemed to be. Could they be following her? But why would they be?

She studied them. They stood close, too close for colleagues. While she watched, Malone laid a hand on the small of Killian’s back, the gesture familiar and intimate.

They were a couple, she realized. For all she knew, they could be husband and wife.

For all she knew.

Everything Brandi had told her had been a lie.

The pleasure drained from what remained of her evening. To hell with this. She was out of here. She’d go have a drink where she fit in, with people like her.

She turned and nearly ran into the dark-haired man who’d been at Shauna M.’s side. He caught her arms to steady her. “Whoa. Sorry about that.”

“It really was my fault. Sorry.”

He smiled, revealing beautiful, perfectly aligned white teeth. She couldn’t help but think of Jessica Skye.

“She hardly ever smiled because of them.”

“Rich Ruston,” he said, holding out his hand.

She took it. “Yvette Borger.”

“You like the show, Yvette?”

“Very much.” She ignored the butterflies in her stomach. “Are you a friend of the artist?” she asked.

“I am. Are you?”

“Just an art lover.”

“Not an artist?”

She hesitated, then replied that she wasn’t, wishing with all her heart that she could answer differently. “You are, though.”

“I am.” He smiled again. “How did you know?”

“I just did.”

“Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“Thank you. White.”

He returned a moment later with two plastic cups, one red and the other white. He handed her the chardonnay. She took a sip.

“Would you like to see my favorite piece in the show?” he asked.

He led her across the gallery. She felt unsteady on her feet and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. How many glasses of wine had she had?

They stopped in front of the small piece, not more than ten inches square. She sipped the wine again. And again. Someone jostled her; wine sloshed over the rim of her cup.

She turned and blinked.

The woman was here, the one who had claimed to be both her and Nancy’s mother. The woman who had used those lies to gain access to her apartment.

“…a jewel,” he was saying. “Powerful and intimate.”

Head buzzing, she watched as the woman crossed to Malone and Killian and hugged them.

Hugged them?

What was going on? A cop conspiracy? Were they playing a game with her?

“What is it?” he asked as she swayed against him. He cupped her elbow. “Are you all right?”

“That woman,” she managed. “I recognize-”

She brought a hand to her head.

“Yvette? Are you…Perhaps you should si-”

“Fi…jus’a bi’too much wi-”

The buzz in her head became a roar. Her knees went weak, then gave out.

Her world went black.