I nearly spat gin everywhere. "Art Crimes," I repeated with a laugh. "You're joking."

Desirae began pulling the rest of her locs up, wrapping and tucking them around her bun. Her feet still kicked up over the back of the seat cushion, toes tapping at nothing in the air by my head. "What was it that you said you did some time for recently?" She made the question seem casual, but her voice hit that same pitch she'd used on Landon earlier.

The smile on my face dropped.

She knew.

"You're not joking..."

"I'm curious, Kirby, why you did it?"

"I should go—"

"Or better yet, why'd you take the blame when your spoiled mafia princess had all the resources in the world to get away with it?"

"I dunno, I'm a dumbass?" I stared down into the pink of my drink and swished the melted ice around, not liking where this line of questioning was going, but my feet wouldn't move. "What can I say, I'm a sucker for a gorgeous woman. Obviously, I haven't learned my lesson." I nudged her leg with my shoulder in defeat. "Did you already know who I was before tonight?"

"I had heard. But the Cassini's did a good job with burying the story and distancing Artemisia from it. Although, I don't believe the police ever recovered the stolen pastels?"

I wasn't about to give her an answer she could use, at least not against me.

"They're long gone at this point, likely hidden away in some creeper's basement dungeon. Besides, Degas was a misogynist who abused his models and took advantage of those little girls. He referred to them as animals because they were forced to fuck older men at the opera houses. A hundred-fifty years later and we're still celebrating people like him? Fuck that..." I hadn't meant to fall into a drunken rant, but Desirae didn't interrupt. Instead, she stared at me around her legs and quirked her eyebrow. "Anyways, the world is better off without those sketches."

She pulled her feet down from the back of the loveseat, grazing her bare knee against mine. "I don't disagree with you, but that's not for you to decide."

"Maybe not. But you asked why I did it. And I don't regret it." Or any of the others... I threw back the last of my drink then set the glass down on the table. "Whose wedding band is that?"

The question seemed to catch her off-guard, and kinda caught me off-guard too. I'd hoped to broach it a little more delicately, but it's not like she had shown me much mercy.

Her fingers went to the band, spinning it along the chain. "So you're telling me it wasn't a commissioned job? You never received any payout from the Cassini's for it?"

If she wasn't gonna answer, neither would I. "See, I thought maybe the ring was your own and you just wear it around your neck when you're working," I reached over and took her left hand in mine, examining it, "but it seems too big for your fingers. That, and there's no engagement ring paired with it. And you definitely seem like a woman who'd rock a nice rock." Turning her hand over, I traced circles over her palm. The tension in her hand began to soften as I felt her relax into me. "It's a newer alloy, likely not a parent or grandparent's heirloom." Her eyes slid up from our hands to find mine. "So I'm guessing you're widowed. Like me."

Pulling her hand back, Desirae sighed. "Why do you care, Kirby?"

"Just looking for connection, I guess."

Which was at least honest.

I'd spent the last several years in an overcrowded French prison, living—existing, with hundreds of women—and I had never been lonelier. But tonight with Desirae, I felt some kind of shared grief between us, and I knew she felt it too because why else would I be sitting here with her instead of a cell downtown. Even if she was using me to try to get information, I could feel there was more to it than just that.

Or I was just dumb enough to hope.

"And I wanna make sure you're not married," I added. "Last thing I need right now is some angry spouse hunting me down. Kinda have some PTSD with lingering paranoia. I learned the hard way about who to fuck and not fuck with in prison."

"Since you brought up prison," Desirae shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, "did Artemisia ever visit you?"

"What do you think?" I leaned back into the cushion, irritated with the question, forever haunted by the answer. "I had barely been locked up for six months when Rafael told me she'd gotten engaged."

"You stayed in contact with her brother while you were away?"

"He wrote me and visited when he could. Why?"

"How does he fit into the family business?"

"Raf?" I guess I shouldn't have been surprised she'd want to know about him, but if she'd done any amount of digging, she should already know. "He doesn't. He has no interest in the so-called 'family business.' His parents consider him a fuck-up and have all but disowned him."

"Yet he still reaps the rewards with access to the family assets and influence."

"He throws really bad pottery, composes Sicilian covers of Taylor Swift songs when he's drunk, and volunteers with the junior sailing program at the yacht club every summer." I could feel myself starting to get defensive. "He's harmless." And yet, my stomach twisted in knots as I thought back to the museum, not seeing his face in the crowd. "I should actually try to call him. Are we done here?"

Grabbing my glass, I didn't wait for her to answer. I stood up and walked over to the sliding door, slipping back inside.

Rafael had nothing to do with the gunrunning or the drugs that the Cassini family was known for or the illicit art dealings they were not known for. He hated violence and death. He couldn't even stomach some of Artie's paintings—not even the ones he modeled for. There was no way he could have had anything to do with Gabe's body at the museum. I was sure of it. I realized then that it probably wasn't doubt chewing at me, but instead just my guilty conscience from keeping secrets from him.

As I reached up to grab my phone from my bra, my heart stopped. I patted around both boobs in vain, only feeling the box of Mega Crackers. It was gone. Along with everything I had left of Artie—photos, videos, messages. My head began to scramble, trying to think of the last place I had it tonight.

The studio.

"You dropped this earlier." Desirae's voice floated around me from behind. She slid the patio door shut, locking it at the handle, then also latching it with a hook at the top. She walked over to the island and slid my phone towards me. "I didn't have much time to charge it for you."

"You didn't go through it, did you?" I was almost embarrassed by the insecurity in my voice. It wasn't the nudes I was worried about her seeing, but the personal mushy texts. I don't know why I even cared.

"Just the contacts, but then I wasn't sure who to call when I didn't see any family listed."

"All long gone. Either dead—or at least dead to me." Scrolling down through the short list of names, I tapped Rafael.

But it rang unanswered til his voicemail took over.

"No answer?"

"He's probably busy doing god knows what with Cora. Hopefully, at her place because I do not want to walk in on that again." As I was about to head towards the door, the fattest orange cat with a white fluffy mustache peeked around the hallway corner, melting me to my knees on the spot. "Oh my goodness, who is this?"

Surprised by my change of tone, Desirae glanced down as I crept towards the cat. "Oh, that's Colonel Mustard. He's uh, pretty shy. And by that, I mean he hates most humans. Don't take it personally if he hisses at you."

"Well, can you blame him? I'm not a big fan of most humans either, Colonel."

Holding my hand out, I rubbed my thumb against my fingers to coax him over. He slow-blinked a couple times, then cautiously padded across the floor towards me in pure defiance of his owner. The tufts of his white mustache twitched as he sniffed my hand, then as if granting me permission, he nuzzled his cheek against my fingers.

"God, I've missed animals so much," I sighed, giving him a good scratch beneath his chin, then up around the back of his ears. "When I got out, I think I stopped to pet every street cat and dog from Paris to Milazzo."

Shit. She didn't need to know I went back to Sicily afterwards. Stealing a glance up, I studied Desirae's face, looking to see if my slip had registered, but she just smiled and shook her head as the orange fluffball headbutted me to keep petting him.

"You just had to prove me wrong, huh bud?"

"A cat's true purrrpose," I purred, not even caring how badly I was embarrassing myself at this point. But before Colonel Mustard got too comfy, I slid him off my lap and stood back up. "I uh, should probably get going. It's been a long night."

"Do you want to try calling Rafael again?" Desirae asked. The softness had returned to her eyes and to her voice. "You're not keeping me up or anything."

"It's okay, I'm not going far. I'm sure you need to debrief or whatever."

There was something different in the way she looked at me now. Disappointed, maybe. I hadn't exactly given her too much to work with, at least not concerning the Cassini's, but I'm sure she knew my withholding was just survival. It wouldn't be long before they heard I was back in town, if they hadn't already.

"Listen Des, I want nothing more than to see the Cassini family fall—Pino, especially. But you're wasting your time looking into his kids. Raf and Artie bonded over their shared hatred for their father, they just let it out in different ways."

"Maybe so."

It seemed like there was something more on the tip of her tongue, like she had more to say, but she was holding back. Maybe it was classified information or whatever. It'd be better if I didn't know and just walked away before either of us got in any deeper. But as I turned to the door, she spoke again.

"I think Gabriel was murdered."