Page 41 of The Death Row Club
“But you don’t agree.”
I’m saved from having to answer by Imogen’s call: “Here we are!” Below, eight easels have been arranged in a semicircle around a rock wall. Water, whisking in from the stream above, pours over the slabs in dozens of miniature waterfalls, some of them thin as a fishing line.
“Wow,” I murmur, taking in the scenery.
“Can everyone find an easel?” I choose one slightly off-center, where I can get the best view. Kemy claims the chair to my left; the one to my right remains empty, along with two others. Imogen begins squirting paint onto the palettes.
Ros edges nearer, dropping her voice so Imogen won’t overhear. “Well, this seems like an improvement on last year.”
“You mean the nature photography workshop?” Kemy says.
“Jesus Christ, three hours spent snapping pictures in the woods, and then we had to do that ‘gallery walk’ and pretend to be fascinated by everyone’s work. ‘Wow, you really captured the essence of that log.I don’t know if I’ll ever look at logs the same way again. It’s almost like Iamthe log.’?”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Stop. It was, and you know it.”
Imogen steps into the center of the semicircle. “We’re beginning this morning with an activity designed to foster self-expression and quiet our minds. We’re lucky enough to have access to this unbelievable space, so draw inspiration from the landscape around you and paint whatever feels right in this moment.”
I haven’t painted in a circle like this since college, when our professors would position nude models in poses meant to highlight their anatomy—the hunch of the back as one model slumped on a stool, the scoop of another’s as she stretched out supine on the floor. Freshman year, Claire always claimed the easel beside mine, leaning over now and then to glance at my work. “Yours looks better than the real thing,” she’d whisper, careful not to disturb the others, before flashing me a smile and turning back to her own canvas. Sophomore year, though, we found ourselves enrolled in the same class as Justin Billings, who seemed to think he was entitled to every woman’s undivided attention. He always picked the easel on her other side, and Claire would shoot me a look—this jackass again, seriously?—before resigning herself to hours of forced laughter at his jokes. As soon as class ended, we’d rush out of the studio together, desperate to escape him.
Men like him always manage to succeed, no matter how mediocre they are. The fact that he has work hanging in blue-chip galleries while my paintings were relegated to the walls of an elementary school classroom kills me.
I start sketching out the rocks, the river, the trees, but my gaze keeps returning to the empty chairs across the circle. How long does it take to drive into town and back? A few hours? Half a day? When should we start worrying that something’s gone wrong?
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud clank from the easel closest to the rock wall. Hannah’s palette has tumbled into the dirt, splattering her with paint. She’s frozen, brush in hand, and looks like she’s about to burst into sobs. Instinct kicks in, and I hurry to help her clean up, the same way I do with my second graders. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her words like scraps of tissue paper. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Here.” I grab the acrylics and squeeze out fresh daubs, so that, if not for the blue paint covering her shin, no one would know there’d been an accident. “Good as new.”
Her lip starts trembling even harder, but she still manages to choke out a watery “Thanks.”
It’s then that I realize the look in her eyes isn’t embarrassment; it’s fear. If Hannah were actually my student, I’d be calling the school social worker and requesting an evaluation, asking if she knew about any problems at home. Even now, I find myself performing a quick visual check for bruises and abrasions on her neck, her cheeks, her arms. Hannah may not be a child, and I may no longer be a mandated reporter, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what the indicators of abuse are.
When I can’t find any on her, I return to my easel. Did her father beat her, before he was arrested? Is that why she defended Steffani last night? Because she was able to relate to what she’d been through? Hannah might not have any visible bruises, but the signs are there all the same: the way she disappears into the background, her oversized reactions to small mistakes. She didn’t reveal anything about her father at the bonfire ceremony, but I’m stunned to find myself thinking:If anyone else’s parent received the death penalty, I hope it was hers.
I don’t, of course. I don’t wish anyone dead, but god, it can be so easy to give in to our worst impulses sometimes.
“There you are,” Ros calls. I whirl around, expecting to find Zach,but it’s Greer skidding down the embankment. She tosses her suede jacket over the chair to my right. “Did you follow them?”
“As far as we could. The tire tracks led to the bridge.”
“Shit.” Ros slaps her brush against the canvas with a wet thwack. “I swear, if she tells anyone about us—”
“She won’t.” Greer drops into the chair. “Trust me, she doesn’t care about this club. The only thing she cares about is getting retribution.”
“I hope you’re right, because if our names end up online, I will track you down. You know that, right?”
Greer sighs, clearly used to these kinds of threats. “I know, Ros.”
“Good.” She settles back in her chair and resumes painting.
Greer rests her elbows on her knees, hangs her head. She looks exhausted. Finally, she peers up at me, curls sagging into her eyes. “Having fun?”
“Tons. Whose idea was this?”
“Mine.” Of course. “Based on all the paintings in your living room, it seemed like something you’d enjoy.”
Right before graduation, I’d informed my dad that I was going to throw away the paintings I’d completed in college. All of them brought back memories of time spent with Claire—or time spent mourning her. The following day, an employee from a shipping company knocked on my door, ready to pack and transport them back home. I’d accused my dad of overstepping, and we’d exchanged some harsh words.
