Sweet Talk

July 8, 2020. The next morning. The Najbreit Estate.

Salome’s been working quietly today, much more reserved than usual. I do my best to stifle the yawn emerging from my mouth, nodding approvingly as Salome plasters another candy wrapper onto the cardboard canvas. This newest piece is coming together nicely.

“Had a long night yesterday?” she asks me.

She’s dressed simply today, a pale strapless pink dress and flats with minimal make-up, but I still find it difficult to concentrate on the art and not her figure.

“Stayed up late,” I say. “But don’t worry. I’m still a great artist when I’m tired.”

“I heard the news,” Salome says, smiling at me. “You don’t have to keep pretending at this art thing."

“What news?” I ask, playing dumb.

It wouldn’t do to tip my hand just yet, if Father and Hyerim have left her out of the loop on anything.

“Oh, just that you’ve decided to help with the family with some of our… other troubles, now,” she says.

“I’m still officially here as the artist in residence,” I say. “And besides, I like working with you.”

“You’re just a sweet-talker,” she laughs, and I get that it’s supposed to be a joke, but I also sense the deeper grain of truth there.

She knows that I’m not just an artist now, and accordingly, all of my actions are going to be judged in a different light. She sees me as a potential threat to the family, and that explains the distance that I’ve been feeling from her today.

“A sweet-talker I may be, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell the truth too,” I say, trying to sound sincere. “And the truth is, I’ve enjoyed working on these art projects with you. I really think they’re getting somewhere.”

Salome chuckles, brushing her long black hair back.

“Hyerim warned me that this might happen,” she says. “That even knowing the truth, you’d still be as charismatic and charming as before… and that I’d need to be careful with myself. Well, she was right.”

Salome picks up one last wrapper and runs a line of glue down its back, sticking it to the cardboard.

“Our hour’s up,” she says, glancing at her watch. “So I’d better get going now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, she’s gone, exiting out the left side of the room without another word. I stare down at the colorful mess of candy wrappers stuck to the cardboard. Have I fucked up? Did I do something wrong?

“Yo, that was crazy man,” Sanchez says, loping in from the right side of the room.

I whirl around.

“Whoa, whoa there, didn’t mean to catch you by surprise,” he laughs. “I was just coming to check in if you wanted to get lunch, and I couldn’t help overhearing…”

“How much did you hear?” I ask.

“Pretty much everything,” he says, a wide smile on his face. “So you’re, like, here undercover? Only pretending to be an artist?”

“I’m not allowed to comment on that,” I say, torn between joking with him and wondering if Father’s going to have my head if news of this leak gets out.

“Still down for lunch though?” he asks.

“Let’s do it,” I say, and the two of us begin heading for the kitchens.

Sanchez only lasts about ten seconds in the quiet before he blurts out his thoughts again.

“Oh come on, I already know there’s stuff going on, so I pretty much know everything, you may as well spill the beans now, eh?”

“I really can’t tell you,” I say, trying to look apologetic. “There’s… probably really bad consequences in store for me, if I do.”

“Really bad consequences for what?” Imelda says, joining us out of nowhere.

She has a strange habit of doing that. And speaking of which, I haven’t forgotten the way she crashed into me…

“Can’t tell you,” Sanchez gloats. “It’s super secret news that only I’m privy to.”

“Hey, that’s no fair,” she grumbles. “Claude and I are great friends too. Aren’t we?”

The weird thing is, I know the exact answer to that question. The AMA puts her score with me at an inconsequential 1.

“Sorry, Sanchez is definitely the better friend than you are at this point,” I say.

“What?” she says, sounding more than her fair share of indignant.

“Well, for starters, you did crash into me in the corridor, back when the fire alarm went off,” I say.

She frowns.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember?” I say. “I was carrying an envelope, and then after you crashed into me, the envelope disappeared…”

“Oooh, spicy,” Sanchez says, rubbing his hands together. He looks between Imelda and me with glee.

“No, I don’t remember anything like that happening,” Imelda says. “I wasn’t even in the house then! You sure it wasn’t someone else who bumped into you?”

“It was definitely you,” I say.

“Well, Sanchez, don’t just stand there looking at us,” Imelda says. “Help me out! I was working with you in the forest on the day the fire alarm went off, remember?”

“Yeah, well, yeah…” Sanchez says, putting a hand to his chin as he thinks back to the day. “You were supposed to be working with me on the old oaks, but I feel like you disappeared at some point, so… who knows?”

He shrugs, and Imelda slaps his shoulder.

“You know I was there,” she complains. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Hey now,” I say, interrupting the cat fight that’s about to break out. “Maybe I just misremembered what happened. I did hit my head when I crashed into somebody, so who knows?”

“Exactly,” Imelda says, sounding triumphant.

Inside, however, my suspicions are raised as high as they can be. Imelda cannot be trusted. Now, what about Sanchez?