Page 52 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“That won’t fly, Jonathan. I mean, look at them.

Sure, the photos don’t show the real light, the exceptional detail.

If you hope to go that route, you shouldn’t have painted them with such skill.

I’ve seen the portraits, and the fact is, I’m fortunate enough to have married into an amazing art collection. I do know art.”

He didn’t look bored now, Eve thought. But riveted. She kept pushing the buttons.

“I can recognize great art when I see it. You have far too many details of your models to claim you just”—she flicked her fingers—“made them up. Those paintings are alive, so maybe I get, to some extent, what you decided to prove to the critics. I get why you needed to prove you could not only match the masters but exceed them.”

“They are extraordinary.” With a fingertip, he pulled Leesa Culver’s portrait closer. “Of course, they’re not finished. But this one, this is nearly. You can see the brilliance. I put my heart and soul into this work.”

He looked at Eve now, with those eyes that weren’t quite right. “As an art collector, you have some sense of the sacrifice the artist makes to create. But unless you’re the creator, you only have a glimmer.”

“Years of study,” Eve said, “of practice, of dedication, the pain of rejection, the insult of criticism by those who won’t ever understand, won’t ever suffer, won’t ever create.

You needed to show them, and you have. You did.

You can’t betray yourself now by refuting your work, the brilliance of it.

How you planned out every detail, down to the smallest point to create masterpieces. To make these people immortal.”

“Yes!” Tears of joy sprang to his eyes. “Yes, yes, you see! At last. They were nothing, common whores. I made them icons who’ll live forever.

With my own hands, I took their light, their life, and with my own hands I poured that into my work.

I had a duty to my art. I had a vision that couldn’t be denied.

I was entitled to take what I needed, and to give it to the world. ”

“And you have. Tell us how. The world needs to know every detail of how you went from concept to execution.”

So he told them. Every detail.

When they had it all, Eve took the next step.

“Why did you deny all of this? Why did you hide your process?”

“To avoid all this. To keep some law that cares nothing about art from stopping me, punishing me. I refuse to go to prison because some judge, some jury puts the lives of nobodies above me and my art.”

“So you ran.”

“I knew my mother would take care of it all. She always does. And she will. She’ll take care of all of this nonsense.”

“Of course. If you’d made it to Caracas, what then? Obviously, you’d continue to paint. Would you continue to kill? To create the immortal?”

“Genius does what it must. It’s above common laws and mores. I won’t be restricted in what I need to create. My mother understands this, supports this as no one ever has until now, with you.”

Eve took an extra beat for the unexpected gift. “You explained all this to your mother?”

“Yes, I felt I must. I’d always intended to tell her when I’d completed the series of eight so that she could arrange things.”

“What things?”

“A show in New York, whatever legal fees required to circumvent any legal matters. The show itself would, no question, supersede those matters, but people had to see the art first.

“I’m an artist, but she is a businesswoman, and would know what to do to protect me, who to pay off, and so on.”

“You told her, as you’ve told us, you killed Leesa Culver, Bobby Ren, Janette Whithers, had planned to kill Aaron Pine, and four others.”

“I don’t remember their names, for God’s sake. Why would I?”

“Why would you?” Eve agreed. “But you told your mother you’d killed three people and had planned to kill others.”

“Yes, I told her the method I’d found to lift my work up. She told me not to speak of it. No one would understand, and she’d fix everything so I could live free.”

“And continue your work. Your art.”

“Of course continue. How could I go back now that I know what I need? I took their lives with my hands, and with my hands transferred that life to the portraits. I gave them immortality and created brilliance.

“Now that you understand and appreciate, I want to talk to my mother. I expect the lawyers will work out some sort of deal, and we can all go back to our work.”

“Jonathan, in the beginning of this interview, I explained to you what would happen, and what wouldn’t.”

“But that was before I explained, before I knew you fully appreciated and understood my work.”

“And now that you’ve explained, I can promise you’ll spend the rest of your life in a concrete cage, off-planet. Your mother may, probably will, serve out her life on-planet, but she’ll have a cage, too.”

“You can’t mean that! Look! Look!”

When he pushed at the photos of the paintings, Eve rose.

“Yes, I see. I see three people you killed, with your bare hands after you rendered them unconscious, so you could try to copy great art, and all for your own ego, your own sense of importance.

Because you think money, money you never earned, makes you better.

“And your art, Jonathan? Is crap. It barely reaches the level of crap. Interview end. Peabody, see that this piece of shit is taken back to his cell.”

“With pleasure.”

“You can’t do this! I want my mother. I want my mother now!”

“Fuck you and your mother,” Eve muttered after she stepped out.