Skullduggery {sapphic thriller}

EPILOGUE

Desirae Udekwu stared up at the painting on the gallery wall. It had been six months since she watched the spray of blood splatter the florals of its canvas. All evening, art patrons and true crime fanatics had flocked around it, taking selfies and live vlogging the opening night of the exhibition. Murmurs of murder and jealousy and revenge mixed with a little bit of truth whispered through the ornate gilded halls of the palazzo.

With the killer dead and the victims all laid to rest, the case officially closed. Sunday Mourning had been released from evidence and returned to Artemisia who had gladly taken advantage of the global media attention. While the death of an artist typically increases their worth, an artist coming back from the dead only to look death in the eye in the form of a scorned lover is thrust to the throne of the Western art world.

Even from behind bars.

Curators from every corner of North America and Europe fought to show her work, dealers promised seven figures easily, but she declined every offer of representation and sale, choosing instead a quirky, palazzo along the southern coast of Sicily. A strategic location, it would seem to Desirae.

"Signora."

A waiter lowered a drink tray in front of her carrying a single pale pink cocktail garnished with a sprig of rosemary and a slice of lemon. A small folded note laid next to it.

"I'm sorry," she looked down at the drink, "I didn't actually order anything."

"The woman at the bar sent it for you."

Desirae glanced past him, but the pop-up bar was empty other than the bartender behind it drying glasses. Only a few other coupled patrons wandered through the shadows of the gallery wing. Most of the crowd had cleared out by ten; it was nearly closing time.

"What did she look like?"

The waiter turned to point her out in the corner, lowering his hand when he saw she was now gone. "Odd, she was just right there." He continued to scan the near empty gallery. His head tipped with a nod toward the painting. "I think it actually may have been her. The one on the left."

Desirae followed his eyes to the painting. "The left? You're sure?"

"She had a long black dress on, dark hair..." He turned to the other wall where a single portrait stared out into the grand hall of the palazzo. His eyes roamed over the flayed nude figure for another moment. "Yes, it was her."

Lifting the drink from the tray, Desirae took a sip as the woman's painted green eyes stared back. Apparently, they'd been watching her all night. She raised the glass to her lips, letting the tang of grapefruit juice roll over her tongue. The warmth of the gin spread through her as she followed the budded vines that sprouted and spilled from the model's eviscerated torso, ending at one ruffled pink blossom between her legs.

"And the note, Signora?"

For a second, Desirae hesitated. Her eyes quickly panned the gallery once more before landing back on the folded card. Picking it up from the tray, she thanked the waiter and took it over to a candlelit cocktail table off in the corner.

Her fingers glided over the note's edge, thumb sliding beneath its fold to open it. Just one line of delicate cursive scrawled across it.

If you keep staring at that painting like that, you're gonna give me the wrong impression.

With the slightest smile, she held the note over the candle until the flame licked the paper black and caught fire. Taking one last sip of her drink, she plopped the burning note into the glass. Its charred, now indiscernible words hissed against the ice.