Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He couldn’t get to his loft fast enough. If she wanted to talk, she’d be waiting for him there.
But as he passed Dylan’s studio, the young man stepped out. Clay had the awful desire to swat him aside as if he were a fly. But of course he wouldn’t do that to Dylan or any of the artists.
Dylan didn’t give him a chance to get a word in. “Have you seen this?” He held up his phone.
“Seen what?” Clay didn’t care. He only wanted Saskia.
But Dylan got right in Clay’s space and punched Play on the video he’d queued up.
Before he even registered the words, Clay recognized the man.
In the video, his face bloated and florid, the man spoke in the rough voice of a two-packs-a-day smoker. “You all know me. Hugo Lewis. I’m also the famous street artist Lynx.”
Though Lynx was a famous street artist, his work had gone downhill over the last five years.
Lewis continued in that smoke-laden voice with a definite Cockney edge. “I’m holding this press conference out of the goodness of my heart.” He held his hand over his heart for emphasis.
“I know everyone in the world—” He spread his arms to encompass the globe. “—wants to know the real person behind the artist San Holo.”
Clay sucked in his breath, held it, until he saw spots before his eyes. But it didn’t stop Hugo Lewis’s words.
“Until now,” Lewis said, “only her agent has known San Holo’s identity.”
Clay dimly registered the pronoun. Her. Not him.
Lewis once more reached out to the world. “I have recently learned that her agent is right here in San Francisco. Adrian Fielding. She’s been keeping San Holo’s secret for five years. I believe the public deserves to know. I believe that keeping her identity a secret is a marketing ploy to raise the value of her paintings.”
Her, her, her. Why did Lewis keep saying that?
But Clay’s stomach was in free fall. He imagined he heard it splatter on the concrete floor at his feet.
“That is why I, myself—” Once again his hand went to his heart. “—revealed my identity five years ago to be Lynx. Because it wasn’t fair to keep you all in the dark. It wasn’t fair to make the value of my paintings rise simply because I didn’t tell any of you who I was. Even Banksy speaks to his public. He might gray out his features, but he talks to us. But not San Holo.” He wagged his finger in front of the microphone, accidentally touching it and setting off ear-splitting feedback. “So I made it my mission to find out who this mysterious San Holo is. For you. The public. The art world. For all the people who deserve to know.”
Clay didn’t think he could breathe, and yet, he sucked in a gulp of air that almost choked him.
Just as he choked on everything Hugo Lewis said.
“I brought you the world-famous street artist Lynx.” Lewis’s voice rose with his momentum. “Now I’m bringing you San Holo. Because that is what the art world and the world at large deserve.” He was making out that he was so altruistic. Dammit, get to the point.
His sales were plummeting. Lewis wanted San Holo’s fame to plummet too.
The journalists crowded around Lewis raised their voices to a cacophony. The man patted the air, bringing the noise level down, letting the crowd know he wouldn’t reveal anything until they hushed. Until he had his moment in the limelight.
Then he leaned in, his lips almost kissing the microphone, and said very softly, “San Holo is Saskia Oliver, who’s been pretending to be San Holo’s assistant. But she’s not. She is the artist. She’s been lying to you all along. To every person who has ever purchased a piece of her artwork. I can’t let that go on. That’s why I’m bringing her name to you. Saskia Oliver,” he repeated.
The crowd fired questions at Lewis, but Clay had heard enough. So had Dylan, who punched Pause when the man’s mouth was wide open, his yellowed teeth front and center.
Pain slid under Clay’s sternum as if it were a knife.
Dylan turned to him. “Did you know all along?” He rushed on before Clay could answer, his voice excited, exhilarated. “Like, that’s so cool. You said you’d find her, and you did. When were you going to tell me?”
Dylan didn’t feel gutted. He didn’t even sound angry. To him, it was super cool that Saskia turned out to be San Holo.
Clay wanted to pound his head against the wall. He should have known. Yet he still fought it. “This can’t be true. She would have told me.”
Dylan stared at him, his mouth agape. “Like, you mean, you didn’t know either?”
Then he whooped and hollered, bouncing around the hallway outside his studio until everyone close by stepped out of theirs. “I was the first one to find San Holo’s new street art. Now I’m the first one to know who she actually is. Our very own Saskia.” He punched the air, then came back down to earth. “Okay, so this Hugo Lewis knew first.” That didn’t faze him. “But I was the one to tell you first.” He pointed at himself, then Clay.