Read Online Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp - Free Book Online Page A

the floor. “Um, nice to meet you Quentin.” My feet remained firmly on the ground. The warmth of his grip crawled up my arm, skewing the moment and tipping it sideways. Sarcasm drifted into my tone as I added, “It was lucky for you that you knew Ms. Harris, and she could connect us.”
    “Yes, it was convenient, wasn’t it? Would you like to show me any of the current art pieces you’re working on?” He didn’t relinquish my hand, but continued to hold it firm in his grip.
    I looked over at Dad anxiously, waiting for him to react. Waiting for him to toss Quentin out. Waiting for him to say something. Anything. “Um, sure. I have some in the room above the garage.”
    I yanked my hand from his and turned to walk out of the room. Dad finally broke his silence — two minutes too late. “Cee, when you’re done, will you please come back in and find me?”
    “Okay.” I didn’t bother to look at him, or wait to see if Quentin would follow. Instead, I stalked out the front door into the rain, my words locked in my throat where anger bubbled close to the surface. I tucked my head down and picked up my pace as I crossed over the wet gravel, Quentin’s feet falling somewhere close behind me.
    “Is your dad the deranged person wandering around your house?” His voice traveled over my shoulder and ran into my wall of irritation.
    “Amongst other things,” I said, simmering as I climbed the stairs to the art room two at a time.
    “He appeared lucid to me.”
    “Appearances can be deceiving,” I snapped and wiped the rain off my face. The sharp scent of acrylic paint greeted me as I stepped into my sanctuary and moved to the far side of the art table, happy for the barrier between us.
    His voice turned serious. “Has he always been blind?”
    The tragic story of my family was not a journey I had the energy to take today. “Why are you here Quentin, and what the hell is the ‘partnering program’?”
    He closed the door and spun the newspaper he’d had lodged under his arm across the art table. The damp pages came to a stop in front of me, an article circled in red facing up.
    “What’s this?”
    “Read it,” his hard voice urged, leaving no room for argument.
     
    Mugging in Pioneer Square Leaves One Dead
    Seattle, WA: Karen and Leland Tate were held at gunpoint around 1:00am Friday morning, while crossing through an alley in the Pioneer Square area of Seattle. An unknown assailant came out from the alley, demanding the Tates’ purse and wallet. When they didn’t immediately surrender their money, the husband was shot twice in the chest. The police are asking for any information in regards to the shooting. The assailant is still at large.
     
    I was stunned. I read the story three times, the shadows in my mind aligning to the words on the page. My breathing turned into huge heaves. I couldn’t look at him. “This could be anybody,” I choked out, the walls of my sanctuary pressing in around me.
    “It could be.” He crept gradually around the table, rendering the barrier useless.
    “It’s not what you think.” Panic sprung loose. I grabbed the edge of the art table and tried to suck in the non-existent air in the room. “It can’t be.”
    “How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?” His voice was eerily calm, causing my loose panic to strangle my rational thought.
    “IT’S NOT!” I trembled from head to toe. This couldn’t be happening. My eyes darted around, looking for anything that felt normal. Anything that resembled my life before my mom died. Before we moved. Before Quentin.
    Unable to control my breathing, I bent over and put my hands on my knees. I was determined not to pass out. Again.
    Quentin moved up next to me, demanding answers. “Do you know what I’m thinking? Or can you only see . . .”
    “Don’t say it,” I interrupted so he couldn’t finish his sentence. I lifted myself upright too quickly, causing the massive amount of blood in my head to trip up my