Page 32 of Beautiful Exile

As we walked up to The Collective, I frowned and checked my watch. It was two minutes before noon, but there wasn’t a soul inside. Annoyance flickered when I opened the door and called out. “Denver?”

No answer.

Apparently, I was rocking a murder list today. First, Kye. Now, Denver, for leaving the gallery unlocked and unattended. I moved through the space, checking the walls and spaces for sculptures. Everything seemed to be in place.

I saw Hannah’s beautiful and delicate watercolor landscapes, Farah’s brightly colored, mixed media masterpieces, and Isaiah’s earthy and sultry sculptures. Plus, my pieces. Mine were a mix of mediums: oils, pastels, charcoal, acrylics, metal, and the occasional clay piece. But one thing tied it all together…darkness.

For the first time in a long while, that had me shifting uncomfortably. I’d come to terms with my battle with the darkness, feeling like my art was an honest expression of the human condition. Now, I wondered if I was missing something.

The bell over the door jingled as it opened, and I whirled, suddenly feeling naked at the flash of self-doubt I’d felt. A tall, muscularman just shy of a decade older than me strolled into The Collective, his black hair shaved on the sides but done in twists on top. He grinned, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin. “Ardy.”

It was the mischievousness in the nickname that had me fighting a grin. “Isaiah,” I greeted.

He moved into my space, not worrying about Brutus at all. He bent to hug me, kissing both of my cheeks. “I missed you like crazy. Why are you always breaking my heart?”

I snorted as he released me. “I doubt you’ll be heartbroken for long.” He was too gorgeous, talented, and charming for that.

Isaiah’s grin widened. “You know I don’t like the silence.”

“Or an empty bed,” I muttered.

“You know me too well.”

The bell rang again as Hannah walked in, looking flustered. Her red hair was piled in a wild bun atop her head, and she wore a sundress with spaghetti straps adorned in wildflowers. “Arden, hey. We weren’t sure if you were coming.”

Guilt churned. I’d been in art and family world lately and not all that present at The Collective. “I made it. Where’s Denver? I want to ream his ass out for leaving the gallery unlocked while no one was here.”

A scoff sounded as someone walked in from the area of the back door. Farah’s lips twisted in a wry grin as she entered, her black hair cut in an angled bob and dressed in her usual artist’s black. How the newest member of our crew had ended up in Sparrow Falls was beyond me, but I adored her angry honesty.

“He’s off passing out flyers for the fundraiser and kissing some reporter’s ass,” Farah mumbled, dropping a stack of flyers onto the desk in the corner.

My mouth went dry. “Did you sayreporter?”

The bell jingled yet again as Denver entered, a man with salt-and-pepper hair next to him. Denver instantly winced. “Hey, Arden.”

I scowled at him. “Something you want to tell me?”

Denver’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Yeah. It just allhappened so fast. Sam Levine is a reporter forAesthetica. He’s doing a big piece on community art programs. Came all the way from New York.”

I didn’t miss how Denver had stressedall the way, as if warning me not to be an ass. There weren’t that many print art publications, andAestheticawas the best of the best. If he wrote a piece about our community program, it could be huge for us.

But it could also put me in the crosshairs.Again.

12

ARDEN

I lookedfrom Denver to the reporter, trying to figure out how to play this. Brutus sensed my unease and pushed against my side, assuring me that he was there and asking if I needed him. I scratched him behind the ears, trying to reassure him, but it did nothing to settleme.

My gaze swept over Sam Levine. He looked like the quintessential reporter in his mid-forties: black-framed glasses, a scruffy, slightly unkempt look as if he’d been staying up way too late to finish a story and existed on coffee alone. But I knew looks could be deceiving. The man who’d killed my parents looked as if he could’ve been seated next to us at the country club.

“Did Denver tell you that I don’t do interviews or photos?” I asked.

The man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m aware of your media aversion, Ms. Waverly.”

Isaiah snickered. “Dude, don’t call her that. She’ll put you on your ass.”

The reporter’s eyes widened a fraction. “What do you like to be called?”

---