Page 44 of All Good People Here

But then, something Eli had said popped into her head.He liked art,painting and shit. It had been a throwaway remark, but it hadn’t been the first time Margot had heard something like it about Jace. What had Billy told her? That Jace was intoarty stuff? An idea, flimsy and vague, formed in Margot’s mind.

She sat up, adjusted her laptop, and typed in the search bar:artplusChicago.The first few results to pop up were the Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Contemporary Art, and a few lists of the highest-rated art galleries in the city. Margot scrolled through their sites and social media accounts, searching for any hint of Jace’s presence, but she didn’t have much hope. Those weren’t thetype of places where you worked when you were trying to disappear. She spent more time on the websites of the smaller galleries, but after an hour, she’d still found nothing, so she switched her search word fromarttopaint.

“Huh,” she said aloud as the new results popped up. The first was for a place called Bottle & Brush, and she could tell immediately from the photos what the business was. In Indianapolis, they had a similar place called Syrah’s Studio, a franchise of painting studios for nonpainters. Bridal parties went there to drink wine and finish their own Monet in an hour and a half. The instructors were all recent art grads looking to make extra cash, their turnaround quick and uneventful. It was the kind of place you could work with art and remain anonymous, the kind of place that might attract someone like Jace.

Margot clicked on the first of the two locations, then navigated to its photos. Most featured a classroom full of people, either posing with their finished paintings or sitting in front of easels, brushes in one hand, glasses of wine in the other. She scanned the faces of who she assumed were the instructors, the ones in paint-splattered smocks at the front of the room. Most seemed to be Jace’s age, late twenties or early thirties. There was a brunette girl, her hair piled artfully on her head and tied with a bandanna. There was a Black guy with dreads, and a white guy with thick-framed glasses. But she didn’t see Jace. Then she clicked to the second-to-last photo and stopped.

In the picture, the class was scattered about the room, making final touches to their canvases or mingling as they drank the last of their wine. In the back, standing next to an industrial-looking sink, Margot spotted a guy in an apron with a fistful of paintbrushes. From the way he seemed to be slipping quietly past a group, she guessed he was some sort of assistant. He was turned slightly, so she couldn’t see his face, but his hair was the sameshade of brown as Jace’s in his mugshot. It was longer in this photo, past his chin and tucked behind his ears. She zoomed in, and his face blurred, but she could make out the shape of it, the coloring.

Margot’s heart beat fast. She hastily slid her laptop off her legs, then strode to her backpack, tugging out the pages she’d gotten at the courthouse. She clambered back onto the bed, her feet tucked beneath her, and held up Jace’s mugshot next to the blurred image of the guy on the screen. Her eyes flicked back and forth, studying the faces. Yes, Jace in the mugshot looked younger, and yes, his hair had been shorter then, but Margot was almost positive they were one and the same.

—

A few hours later, Margot peered through the glass door of Bottle & Brush. The long right-hand wall was filled with amateur paintings: grinning llamas in flower crowns, endlessStarry Nights, still lifes of potted plants and olive-adorned martinis. The place was dark and empty.

Margot knew from their website that they had a Paint Your Dog! class tonight at seven. She’d gotten there a little after five, in hopes of catching the employees before the participants arrived, but it seemed she was too early. She knocked loudly on the door, then cupped her hands to the glass and peered through. Nothing. She waited, knocked again. In the far back was a door, an employee-only room, but it remained closed.

“Shit,” she said, turning to leave. She’d just have to wait in her car until people started to arrive. It was frustrating to spend hours on a lead she didn’t even know would pan out, but it was the only lead she had.

As she was stepping off the curb, she heard the sound of a door swinging open behind her. “Can I help you?”

Margot’s chest fluttered with hope. The business wasn’t big; surely all the employees would know each other. If Jace worked there, whoever was at the door now would know. She turned around, her mouth open to explain, but then she froze. Standing in front of her—brown hair, bright green eyes, and sharp features—was the male version of January Jacobs.

When he self-consciously tucked his hair behind his ears, Margot realized she’d been staring. “Yeah, hi.” Her voice sounded breathless. “Um…”

He cocked his head. “Are you interested in a class? We’re not open now and our class tonight is sold out, but I could give you a calendar.”

“Oh, thank you, but actually…” Her head was swimming. At the sight of him, vague memories of their childhood flooded her mind, images of running around in his backyard, playing hide-and-seek on the elementary school playground. “I’m actually here to see you.”

“Excuse me?”

She hesitated. “You’re Jace Jacobs, aren’t you?”

Panic darted across his face and he began to turn away.

“Wait! My name’s Margot Davies. I used to live across the street from you. I was friends with January.”

Jace hesitated, slowly turning back around. His eyes were wary. “Margot?”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Do you remember me?”

“I do, actually.”

This surprised her. He and January were branded on her brain because of the tragedy surrounding them, but she assumed she’d faded from his memory long ago.

“How did you find me?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It wasn’t easy.”

“And…why are you here?”

“Do you know what happened at your family’s farm lastSaturday? The message written on the barn?” She studied his face, looking for some sign that she’d caught him out.

His jaw tensed and his eyes went flat as if he’d slammed a window shut. Suddenly, she could see his face from the mugshot. “Are you a reporter or something?”

“I just wanna talk.”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Un-fucking-believable.”

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