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A Lovely Deadly Muse
Chapter 1

Memories are tricky, particularly those that carry a foul stench. If someone were to ask you to recall one right now, what would you remember? What would you see? Does it build a crushing weight against your chest? Bad memories are unpleasant for a reason. Most of us like to forget them, pack them away like little secrets, only to have them crawl out on random occasions and let all hell break loose.

Unless, of course, you are in the business of memories. In this line of work, you must dissect those cruel moments repeatedly, reaching far and wide into that terrible moment to uncover every crevice of its despicable nature. It’s like being a miner searching for a rare mineral, carving against a mountain of crap, gutting the walls of mud and sludge. Where is that stone? The one worth everything in this world—a life of peace. The stone is the story, the true story, but it takes ages to get there.

Leo Daniels was in the process of his latest extraction and often asked himself if what he was doing was worth it if he was accomplishing anything. No matter how frequently he sat in his pristine law office, there were always more clients and more stories to mine. The mining was starting to become his undoing, yet he would never show this doubt to a client, and most certainly not to his colleagues or partners. He had to be the one to assure others that they could do this, that they could win, and that despite statistics, circumstance, and the general justice system, a difference could be made.

So, Leo sat in his chair with composure intact, head level, blue-eyed, and assured. He delivered the line he hoped both he and the client would believe. 

“What you’ve been through is unthinkable. While I can’t make promises, I assure you that I will do everything I can to ensure this man is punished to the full extent of the law.”

The young woman, Beth Rayes, sat across from Leo. She spent two hours giving her deposition in his firm’s conference room. It was just them; Leo didn’t like to bring in an audience when clients had to discuss the memories. It had to be handled delicately, peeling back layers with careful precision, like nurturing a bird with a broken wing.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her brown eyes peeking at him. A tight braid wound her light brown hair, but it had become loose as she touched her crown frequently over the meeting. Errant strands were pulled over her pale face, a fingernail wedged between chapped lips. Her other hand stroked the edge of her loose white button-down. It was clear to Leo that the mining of her memories had taken their toll. He noted how her frame had become smaller throughout their meetings, her story eating away at her. Leo made it a point to have every single one catered. Her half-eaten sandwich remained on the oak conference table, her water glass empty and marred with fingerprints. Neither the food or drink would fill her up, but it was enough for now. 

The pictures she produced as evidence showed a woman who used to party, have fun, and be carefree. Not anymore. The memories had done their work, still feasting on the meal. Beth was paranoid, her eyes flashing to the door. Leo knew who she was thinking about. His fingers begged to be clenched, but Leo was a man of careful composure. He knew how to sit his overly tall body to look less intimidating and keep his typically cold face warm. Leo didn’t particularly like this awareness he had to have, but so many had commented on his physical appearance enough that he knew it required accommodation. 

He sat casually, his broad shoulders pressed against his navy suit loose, his hands clasped before him. He did not fidget or push back the strands of his black hair. Leo needed to be a pillar, a symbol of confidence and trust, intimidating to the predators outside this room and in the court, but with Beth, he had to be something different—another version.

Beth kept mentioning her concern that the partying ways would make her at fault.

“Nothing about this is your fault,” Leo assured her vehemently. She replied with a dazed look. One he was too familiar with after dealing with these cases over the years. And, of course, when he was younger and too stupid to notice it.

“Thank you. I’m glad she told me to reach out to you.”

Leo tilted his head. “She?”

Beth wiped her eyes with a tissue.

“Who?” Leo asked curiously.

“A girl I met at one of the parties…she told me about you. I was nervous about finding the right lawyer, dealing with one more man who didn’t believe me, or too afraid to go against him. She said I wouldn’t have to worry about that with you. That you were good.”

Leo scrutinized that information with a frown. He wasn’t working with any other victims from this case. 

“Do you recall her name? What did she look like?”

Beth’s brows drew in as she tried to remember. Leo knew it was hard for victims of such instances to recall memories, but he hoped she could.

“She didn’t give me her name, but she was sweet. She was a beautiful girl, light, like an angel. I wish I could see and thank her again, but I never saw her after that, like she had just vanished.”

Leo could only imagine one beautiful girl, but she was long gone. 

“Whoever she is, I’m glad she pointed you to me.”

Leo rose, buttoning his suit jacket as he approached Beth and offered his hand. She took it and stared up at him. Her soft eyes moved over his face, and he noticed a blush rise to her cheeks. Women tended to give him those eyes often. He withheld a sigh and created some distance, asking about her plans as they left the room. 

“Netflix and wine. Alone,” she said with a sad frown. “You?”

“Just an art gallery show tonight,” Leo said evenly.

Her steps slowed. “You don’t mean the JD opening?”

JD were the initials of an anonymous artist living in New York City with whom everyone had become obsessed. He was the artist of the decade. Irreverent, bold, and completely untraceable. His shows were put on by the same art dealer every season. The dealer was the only source of information on JD, and he loved dropping breadcrumbs. Sharing tidbits of stories but never enough to create a picture, holding court like a king and the city of New York were his courtiers. All you knew was that JD was male, deeply troubled, and a genius of the generation. But whose generation wasn’t known. People assumed he came onto the scene young, but the art dealer never gave away his age or any identifiable features. It was left up to interpretation based on his show every year.

“You must be special.” Her eyes scanned him curiously. 

“Or just lucky.”

The list of attendees was a lottery. Each name was vetted and allegedly handpicked by JD himself. It was a legend that he had a pair of hackers who drew backgrounds on every person’s name, ensuring they were worthy of viewing his next collection. His work sold out in seconds, each piece worth hundreds of thousands to upwards of millions of dollars. Art collectors and dealers swooned whenever they got a whiff of his next gallery opening, seeing dollar signs.

Every piece had been black in the first four years of his mysterious galleries. JD appeared disturbed and unmistakably broken. Each time, he tore out a piece of his soul, putting bits of his heart on display for the world to devour.

In the fifth year, Valentine’s Day marked the first time JD had used color, and the media clamored that he must have fallen for someone, as the show’s title, Dangerous Love, suggested. The pieces were still dark and haunting, showcasing ballistics from gunshots that hit colorful paint, splattering erratic pops of blues, pinks, greens, and yellows onto canvases that resembled a gun range.

He painted guns. Automatics, handguns, and rifles, all done in bright pops of color, primarily blue, shooting everything from flowers to hearts and diamonds. He even had a series of grenades covered in splatter paint that he called his Love Bombs. They were all titled something suggestive: Touch Me, Hold Me Tight, Grip it Harder, Blow Me. Everyone said he was like a pop artist that year. It was one of his most prized collections and what started to capture mainstream interest in him. It also helped that he had graffitied two of the most art-centric cities in the world: New York and Paris. People didn’t know it was him at first until the show revealed similar artwork, and a year’s worth of street art from JD suddenly became iconic photoshoots for his fans and beyond.

Designers were obsessed with him. He allowed a select few to take his Dangerous Love patterns and turn them into high fashion designs. The moody Hollywood heartthrob, Benny Queen, allegedly befriended the artist, and the two reveled in the underground clubs of New York with their inner circles, further adding to his allure.

As if sulking from the newfound fame, his sixth year was called Burn. Every piece was charred, flaming, and dark. A burned car, chairs, walls, and even a fake house burned to a crisp. A burned notebook, which everyone tried to read, but it wasn’t for sale. Just an encasement of pages that were lit up, barely a page traceable. And true to JD’s cryptic ways, there was a message, a single line that was not burnt: My heart is a burn that will never heal. Yep, everyone thought he had a bad break-up.

Now, the tenth gallery opening was thought to be something special. Everyone believed this was the one where JD would reveal himself. It was rumored he attended every event. Mingling with the crowd like a god among mortals. No one knew for sure, and the close-lipped art dealer never gave too much away. 

The anticipation thrilled Leo. He started taking an interest in art when he moved to New York. It felt oddly familiar, connecting with works made by strangers. 

Leo was from California and from an endlessly wealthy family who would have rather had him own a winery than live out in New York. Their lives were too pretty. Leo was sick of “pretty” after what he had experienced in high school and how his whole town tried to cover it up. The world was cruel, gritty, and unkind, but the law was the law. It gave him some satisfaction to put the worst of the world where they belonged.

“Leo, a moment,” the senior partner, Glen Rose, called him after Beth left.

“Sure,” he replied, entering Glen’s corner office. 

“How was she?”

Leo gave him the brief notes from the meeting, and Glen listened with his patient, clear eyes. Glen was the calmest lawyer Leo had ever met. He felt like a clinician, accessible and level-headed, though slightly introverted. He had trouble asking direct questions when it wasn’t about a case, making him a maladroit conversationalist.

“So…you’re going to that thing tonight?” Glen asked casually. Too casually for an awkward son of a bitch like Glen.

“The JD show? Yes.”

“Pretty interesting you get to go every year…” Glen trailed off, looking at his desktop momentarily before peeling his grey eyes back to Leo.

When Glen stopped talking, Leo offered a conversational volley: “I’m surprised myself.”

Most people in the office were impressed. Even if they didn’t care about art, everyone knew JD and that tonight’s ticket was the hottest in town.

Glen gave a hesitant nod, his gaze fixed on Leo’s navy tie. A space of silence filled the void in their conversation. Leo waited for Glen to say something, but he seemed frozen.

“June 12,” Glen said after some time, his eyes lifting to meet Leo’s stare.

Leo nodded with measured contemplation. 

The tenth gallery opening landed on a Friday, a rarity for JD. He liked to open during the week, disrupting the city with his erratic ‘I don’t give a fuck’ schedule. But this day, while a Friday, held meaning to Leo in a distant and tragic memory. It was June 12. It was a day ingrained in his mind for so many dark reasons. He wondered what this day meant to JD.

“Is that all? I was hoping to head out.”

Glen opened his mouth to say something but then snapped it shut. 

“No, no. Enjoy your evening. See you on Monday.”

Leo watched Glen for a moment, wondering what he wanted to say. Believing it to be nothing but Glen’s strangeness, Leo dismissed himself and stepped out of the office and down the elevator. 

Ready to head to JD’s show.