Page 142 of The Wicked

He hesitated, shifting slightly on the chair as he shook his head. “No, you are not. The duplicates were printed.”

“Strike three. Lies.”

He swallowed. “I know fucking nothing, I swear to you. When Mr. Garza gave me that project, my life changed, and I—”

“I will care about your life’s achievement when pigs grow wings and litter the sky.”

He clamped his mouth shut.

“I warned you about wasting my time. Apparently, you are one of those who gets curious to see what I will do next. You might think since your fingers and source of livelihood are gone, there’s nothing else we can take.”

“I have no family you can hunt down. I have nothing. You might as well kill me.”

I watched him for almost a minute, and he squirmed under my stare, discomfort straining his posture.

I brought one hand from my pocket, rubbing my jaw as Ilooked away from the man to everyone else in the room, watching the scene with curiosity, also wondering what I would do next.

I looked back at the artist. “Last chance, Fio. I insist you tell me what you know about the original painting. What is the tell? What would make finding it easier?”

“Like I said, I know nothing.”

The silence grew—one minute.

Two.

Three.

Four…

Well… I warned.

I bent to his level; both my hands covered his wrists on the arms of the chair as I looked him dead in the eye. “Do you want to hear a story, Fio?”

He swallowed, the sound spelling fear.

“About an artist. Hewasan orphan, drew little sketches of people in the streets of Paris, wore rags for clothes, but had a brown hat given to him by a respectable sailor after a wonderful sketch he made of him. The artist was so happy. He wore it daily; even when he went to sleep, he would hug it to his chest, his first achievement.”

Fio’s eyes grew wide in horror.

“That little hat seemed to have given him so much hope, and then he started sketching for coins. People would stop by in his open corner, dropping coins for a sketch—couples, families, tourists… He felt like he had found a calling. It made him save up. He then bought watercolors and brushes and started adding colors to people’s clothes in his drawings. He gave them smiles that reached their eyes, even when the smiles didn’t.”

Fio’s lips parted, breathing noisily.

“He made so much money, grew up, and traveled to Mexico. He got a part-time job at an antique store and changed his name from Yves to Fio so that he could blend in. The owner of the antique store never paid him a dime, but the basement beneaththe store was spacious and had an aesthetic feel; helovedpainting there. Made a couple of thousand dollars through online ordering and delivering.”

Fio shook his head slowly, tears gathering in his eyes.

“Through that means, he met a beautiful woman, Sofia. Shewasalso an artist, but she was more into digital art. They fell madly in love. She had red hair and the most dashing smile he had ever seen. They met physically on a sunny summer morning, and her beauty enchanted him; he couldn’t stop smiling at her. She became his muse, and he painted a beautiful portrait of her, which caught the eye of many collectors. Eventually, they got married.”

“No.” His voice trembled.

“Oh yes, they did.”

“No, please.” His breathing shuddered, and his tears dropped.

“It was a small wedding. Only four attendees. But it was the most important day of their lives; they would finally live their dreams and grow old together as man and wife.”

“Stop—”