a scare, but you’re okay now,” he added.
And somehow, she was.
“You’re sure you don’t know the guy who tried to break in here?” The detective’s mop of dark hair softened the intensity of his gaze. “You’ve no idea why anyone would break into your studio this hour of night?”
Renata shook her head again. If she’d testified before the war tribunals, someone might have had cause to try to shut her up, but that’s why Renata hadn’t testified. Why she would never testify.
The detective finally went to the windowsill to dust for fingerprints. Meanwhile, Renata searched for her pet python. As she checked all of Scylla’s usual hiding spots, she realized the detective was examining her work. “These are some powerful pieces,” he said of the statuary adorning her studio.
“Thank you,” Renata said politely. “They’re not to everyone’s taste. One of my critics said they were nightmares brought to life.”
The detective circled a black marble sculpture of a man with a gun strapped over his shoulder, his clenched fist pulled back to brutalize an unseen victim. “Not a nice guy, I’m guessing.”
“He was charged with crimes against humanity,” Renata said, feeling a well of rage rising as she remembered his deeds. “He died before they could convict him, though.” What she did not tell the detective was that the soldier had died the very night Renata finished his sculpture, and thus joined her collection of ghosts.
When she was a fledgling artist, Renata carved the faces of children felled by sniper fire outside Sarajevo. Even now, after years of experience, the only living person in her art collection was The War Criminal, so she watched warily as the detective approached the almost-finished statue and ran his hand over the stone. “This is the guy on trial at The Hague right now isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Renata replied, impressed. It seemed unlikely that an ordinary police detective would know anything about it; in Renata’s experience, most people chose to forget the war that had destroyed her childhood. That this man seemed to care made Renata willing to talk. “The War Criminal was going to be the centerpiece of my exhibit at the gallery tomorrow to coincide with the expected verdict against him, but now I’m afraid I won’t finish in time.”
“But you must finish it,” he insisted, a ripple of anger passing across his shoulders beneath his leather jacket. His sudden vehemence startled Renata, and seeing this, he measured his tone. “I’m just saying that you can’t let anything stand in your way. An art exhibit is a huge deal, isn’t it? You’ve worked hard for it, haven’t you? You can’t let someone scare you from finishing important work like this.”
Renata was flattered that he thought her work was important, but she was terribly unsettled. She wished he would tell her that they had her would-be kidnapper in custody. She just wanted to feel safe—but then, hadn’t she always? Renata shrugged apologetically. “I can’t do the delicate finishing touches with shaking hands.”
“Look,” the detective said. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll keep my squad car parked right outside tonight and make sure nobody bothers you. Meanwhile, you should just take your fear from tonight, turn it to anger, and finish your sculpture.”
Renata tilted her head at the curious phrasing he used. “I don’t think you should be encouraging that. My therapist thinks I have anger issues.”
He gave a mirthless smile, a gleam of savagery in his eye. “No doubt. Sounds like you clocked the perp. Did you throw the hammer because you were scared or angry?”
“Both,” Renata admitted.
“Then it seems to me that your anger is what kept you from being kidnapped tonight and it’ll help with your art too.”
Renata couldn’t help thinking, yet again, that this was no ordinary police detective. Once again, he took her hands in his. She felt something tug at her emotions and she realized she was no longer shaking from fear.
Only rage.
Someone had broken into her apartment. Someone had pointed a gun at her and tried to take her. Someone had come into her world, uninvited, and tried to rip apart her life just like the invading soldiers had done all those years ago. And someone should have to pay for that.
Anger roiled and coiled inside her, twisting upon itself with venomous purpose. It was past midnight.
Renata picked up her tools and began to sculpt.
Chapter Two
The dark shadows of Renata’s studio receded with the sunrise, and she was roused by an early morning phone call. When Renata told her about the break-in, her foster-mother sounded worried. “You should have never taken a studio in that part of town. Why wasn’t the boyfriend there with you?”
“Scylla turned out to be much better protection,” Renata said, deciding that now was probably not the time to announce that she and the boyfriend had parted ways. It had happened the way it always did: he accused her of keeping secrets from him, and maybe she had been secretive. After all, some pain you just couldn’t share except through art. “Anyway,” Renata said into the phone. “I just wanted to call and ask you to wish me luck at the exhibit today. I’m a little nervous.”
“Oh, Renata, your work is amazing. You’re going to be the talk of the town, honey.”
Renata would feel better if her foster parents could attend the exhibit, but they were several states away. Besides, they had already done enough for her. They had taken her in as a child-refugee of a foreign war, and stood by her through countless surgeries to repair her scars. The art show was just going to have to be something Renata did on her own.
“Renata, I know the news is unsettling.…”
Cold dread pooled in the pit of Renata’s stomach. “What news?”
Her foster mother’s silence told her all she needed to know. Renata grabbed the remote and turned on the television.
The war criminal was dead.
It was happening again. The International Criminal Tribunal had not even had the chance to pass judgment on him. He had simply died in his cell.
Perversely, the morning’s headlines made Renata’s exhibit extremely popular. Visitors flocked to see her artwork, all whispering about the mysterious way in which the accused war criminal had died. Renata knew she should be elated by the attention, but she was sad, because no matter how much critical acclaim she received, if not for her foster parents, Renata would be alone in this world.
“Don’t stare like that,” Marta, the gallery owner, chided. “You look beautiful, but it’s very intimidating. Smile, it’s your big debut! And here, let me fix your hair.”
Renata knew her exotic dark curls were impervious to the taming of a comb or barrette and they’d never submit to the sleek styles that were currently in fashion, so she rolled her eyes and said, “Never mind my hair, Marta! What are they saying about the exhibit? Do they like it?”
“Darling, they love it! And I need to introduce you to a potential buyer with very deep pockets.”
For Renata, this was the most discomfiting part about art. She loved creating, she savored the outlet, and she needed to sell her work to pay the rent. But as a sculptress, she felt an intimate relationship to every piece in her collection. It was difficult to let them go. Still, Renata forced a smile and followed Marta through the throngs of well-wishers.
“Renata,” Marta began. “Meet Ms. Kokkinos. She’s a private collector, and a great admirer of your work.”
A private collector? Renata had assumed that any potential buyer with deep pockets would have been here representing a museum. She never expected a private collector would be interested—after all, Renata’s art was sad. Who would buy it to adorn a garden or household foyer?
Ms.