Graffiti Casanova

Setbacks

Sarah Wyatt, who was also Sirena, called the lone number on the phone. A man answered. "Yes?"

"I have information."

"Tell me."

"A girl, short black hair, caucasian, early twenties, was with him."

"Did she paint as well?"

"No. Well, I didn't see."

"Where?"

"Fifth and Maple, leaving an alley."

"Any other descriptions you can give us?"

"I couldn't get a good look."

"We'll see what we can do with this." The man hung up.

CLAIRE

Cas hadn't contacted me again. Jonas Williamson was leading the polls, and election day was rapidly approaching.

And today was the show for the label rep. Unity. Tomorrow, we could be signed.

Jared had picked Dad up nearly an hour ago-- he wanted to go over a couple last-minute ideas he'd had. I couldn't tell him not to change anything-- I'd rewritten some lyrics just the night before. Besides, Dad would be quality control.

I was alone. I'd packed up everything I needed and was ready to go when I heard the doorbell.

Bennie, maybe? I thought she'd be driving separately. It only occurred to me that, of course it wasn't Bennie, she always let herself in, when I opened the door to see the police.

Cold fear twisted in my gut, and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Is my dad okay?"

"Claire De Cecco, we're going to need you to come with us. We have a few questions for you."

I gripped the doorway. "My dad," I said, voice rising. "Is he okay?"

"This has nothing to do with your father, Miss De Cecco. We're not arresting you, but we will be forced to if you don't come willingly."

I blinked at them. "I don't understand." But I allowed myself to be led to a police car and helped inside.

A dream was only memories, but when you were in the dream, it felt one-hundred percent real. And this felt like a nightmare.

"I don't understand," I said again, but no one answered me. It was a long drive to the station-- it felt long. Probably wasn't longer than ten minutes. The car door was opened for me and I was helped out of the car once again. They led me into the station.

"McGregor wants her in his office," someone said over me, and I was led along several hallways until we reached a doorway. The policeman in front of me ushered me inside, told me to sit, and left.

"Claire De Cecco."

In front of me, on the other side of the desk, was a large man with a kind face. His shirt seemed two sizes too small, but not from fat-- from sheer muscle. His huge shoulders hunched over his desk, and his desk plate read Robert McGregor. Police Chief.

"Yes."

"Do you know why you're here today?"

I looked at him with wide eyes. "No." I quickly added, "Sir."

He looked at me. "You are here because we have reason to believe you have associated with the criminal artist called Casanova." My heart leapt into my throat. "Is this true?"