Skullduggery {sapphic thriller}

CHAPTER THREE

As I submerged the dress in the sink, I glanced over to the corner where the skull had sat earlier, but no eyes stared back at me. Looking around for it, I turned to see Desirae facing me with her lab coat draped over her arm.

She quickly dropped her eyes to the floor as she walked the coat over to me. "You are her, aren't you? Number thirteen?"

As I slid into the sleeves, she looked back up at me, staring hard at my face to search for the inevitable truth.

"You've tanned and dyed your hair dark—and it suits you well, helps you blend in, I'm sure." With a hum, she reached out to touch my chin, turning my face to an angle. "Your cheeks have thinned out and your nose slopes a little sharper now, but it's you. You're the woman in the painting with Artemisia."

"In the flesh," I murmured against her hand.

Her fingers slipped away from my jaw, returning to her chest to tease the chain of her necklace. "I didn't actually catch your name."

"It's Kirby."

"You didn't even make that up, huh?" With a smile, she spun a gold wedding band on her chain between her fingers. "So Kirby, I'm curious... What motive might an artist's model have for sneaking around the back halls of a museum, and then attempting to schmooze the skeevy art director who happens to be the widow of the aforementioned artist? 'Cause I have some theories."

Biting my lip, I debated whether or not to just tell her the truth. Best case scenario, she was sympathetic to my cause and could help. Worst case... I found myself in a cell by the end of the night. The latter was certainly not favorable. But the longer I stared back at her, the more I began to see she was hiding something too. I stepped closer to her, enough that I could feel the rise and fall of her chest, but she didn't yield.

"Well, Desi..." The sobriquet rolled with ease from my lips, earning a smirk from her. "How about you tell me why the skeevy art director got so defensive as soon as you waltzed our way?"

Her eyes lit up for the challenge, sinking into me as she let go of her necklace. "I received a call last month from the curator here who was cleaning out the storage room while Landon was away on a business trip. She'd found a skull tucked away on the shelves and was hoping I could draw up some sketches to get some kind of ID on it."

"So you're like a forensic artist?"

"It doesn't exactly pay the bills, but yeah, it's a sidegig."

The thought of her tied so closely to law enforcement made me rethink coming clean to her. Yet, as suspicious as she already was of me, here she was, sharing museum secrets.

"When Landon came back, he seemed overly invested in me and my work. He offered me a residency on the spot, was very persistent about taking me out to dinner, which I declined every time. I thought he was just being a creep, but then I learned that the skull was found with his late-wife's artwork."

"That honestly doesn't seem too weird for Artie," I assured her. "She was obsessed with memento mori motifs and often used skulls in her work. Even real cadavers. Just take a look at the galleries here."

"And I imagine she went through all the correct, legal channels to do so?"

I remained quiet.

She walked over to a display case and flipped a switch, lighting up the skull and a couple wrapped clay busts. "Unfortunately, my buddy Theodore—whose name likely isn't Theodore, is telling me otherwise. His skull was never stamped with a serial number that would tell which body-trading company he came from. In Artemisia's defense, it's a very unregulated market. These body brokers can hack up the dead any way they like and sell the body parts all over the world with impunity. It's a million dollar industry. But guess who just started up his own donation network?"