I marked my calendar with her moving day, and I began checking her Instagram every hour, often more frequently, hoping for updates. My bones rattled with anticipation as the days until she arrived dwindled to three, two, one. And then she was here. Her Stories showed her buying coffee at Columbia Brews, a hipster coffee shop near Logan Circle, and captured a team of men in matching T-shirts carrying boxes into her apartment. The evidence was indisputable. She was really here, and I could think of nothing else. With every inhalation, I knew we were breathing the same thick air. With every sunrise, I knew the sun was creeping across our rooms at the same time. With every passing second, I wondered if she was nearby. She obliterated every other thought, leaving me a stammering mess during dinner with my family, an ineloquent scatterbrain on work emails.
I couldn’t go on like this. She was in my city, within my grasp. I had to do something.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AUDREY
Capturing the scope of the Hirshhorn’s monumental building—an elevated, concrete wheel rising among the other, more sedate museums on the Mall—was impossible from my phone. After a few failed attempts, I settled for snapping a picture of the distinctive sculpture by the entrance: a black ’92 Dodge Spirit being crushed by a boulder with a painted-on face. I tagged the location, added an animated heart, and uploaded the image to my Stories.
I slid my phone into my bag and looked up to see my new boss, Ayala, waiting for me just inside the glass-walled lobby. She looked as glamorous as she had at my interview, wearing a crisp white sheath, her black hair slicked into a ballerina bun and her lips painted candy-apple red. I nearly shot my arm up to excitedly wave but forced myself to offer a restrained nod and smile instead. Projecting a cool exterior was imperative even though I felt anything but cool. For starters, the temperature was in the upper nineties with what felt like 1,000 percent humidity. The outfit I’d chosen with such care—cropped, wide-leg black pants with a slinky black camisole and a gauzy kimono covered in a cheeky bird print—had felt damp as soon as I stepped outside, and my hair felt enormous.
Moreover, I was a mass of nerves. Here I was, about to fulfill a lifelong dream of working in one of the country’s top museums. What if I couldn’t hack it? Maybe I really did need that graduate degree; maybe without it I was woefully unprepared. What if they realized right away what a fraud I was? I couldn’t return to New York a failure, couldn’t beg Izzy for my old bedroom back. I wished I could dip a hand into my bag for the Xanax I’d stashed there alongside some animal crackers, but Ayala was holding the door open for me, so I didn’t dare. Instead, I swallowed my anxiety, pasted a smile on my face, and channeled the confident, chic woman I pretended to be online.
“Audrey,” Ayala said, her long, neon-green nails pressing into my flesh as she clasped my hand. “So nice to see you again.”
“It’s wonderful to see you, too. I’m so excited to be here.”
“We’re thrilled to have you on board,” she continued, the warmth in her voice melting some of my nerves. “A friend who owns a gallery in New York introduced me to your Instagram account years ago, and I absolutely just fell in love with your voice. It’s so irreverent. When I saw your application, I knew immediately that you were the woman for the job. You don’t take yourself too seriously.”
She paused, frowning slightly, and I glanced down at myself as surreptitiously as I could, wondering what she had seen that was out of order.
“You should know, however, that not everyone agreed. There were those who felt we should go with a more traditional choice. Someone with an advanced degree and proven museum experience.” She placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, just tightly enough that I squirmed. “I advocated for you, Audrey.”
I swallowed hard and cranked up the wattage on my smile. “I really appreciate that. You won’t regret it. I have some ideas about—”
“I’m dying to hear them,” Ayala said, holding up a hand. “Truly. But first, the official tour.”
* * *
AFTER AYALA HAD LED ME through the permanent collection and the new exhibitions, she stopped in front of a gallery blocked off with plain gray screens. A small black sign was posted to it, reading GALLERY CLOSED.
“I have exciting news,” she said dramatically. “You’ve heard of Irina Venn, I presume?”
“Of course. I was volunteering at MoMA when they hosted Missed Calls—that exhibit of hers with all the deconstructed phones?”
“Yes, yes.” She nodded encouragingly. “What did you think of it?”
“I think she’s fucking brilliant.”
Ayala paused, her head cocked slightly to the side like a cat who’s just spotted a bird, and my stomach plummeted. You moron, I chastised myself. Way to drop an f-bomb in front of your new boss within the first hour on the job. Überprofessional. My fingers itched to reach for that Xanax, but I kept them at my side and my face as blasé as possible. Pretend you’ve done nothing wrong. Be as if.
She broke into a sudden, toothy grin. “Then you’re going to love this.”
She swept one section of the screen aside and slipped behind it, beckoning me to follow her.
“Here it is,” she said reverently, cheeks flushed as she gazed around the dimly lit room. “The future home of the newest Irina Venn installation.”
I looked around to see a gallery still under construction, with no signage or labels of any kind. A number of pedestals had been erected in the room, and glass-encased dioramas stood atop several of them. At first glance, it reminded me of the miniature rooms at the Art Institute of Chicago. My family had taken a trip to Chicago when I was in elementary school, and I had been captivated by those rooms’ lush details. Back home, I had “curated” my own collection of miniature rooms by assembling doll furniture in a series of shoeboxes, an “exhibit” that lasted until Maggie demanded to know why her meticulously arranged dollhouse had been ransacked.
“Dollhouses?” I guessed.
“In a sense,” Ayala said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “Come with me.”
She strode to the far end of the gallery and gestured to one of the final dioramas. At her urging, I peered inside. Unlike the pristine rooms in the Art Institute’s collection, this one featured a little bed with rumpled sheets, tiny cosmetics bottles strewn across a miniature vanity, and a doll-sized dress hanging off the back of a diminutive chair.
“It’s—” I started.
Then I noticed the dark red stain on the furry rug, coming from underneath the bed. I tilted my head to get a better view. Beneath the tiny bed, I spotted something pale and …
I jumped back, surprised.
Ayala laughed. “Meet Rosalind.”
“Is Rosalind … dead?” I asked, my skin breaking out in gooseflesh as I leaned forward again to examine the bloody doll.
“She is, yes. Poor Rosalind. It’s called The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose,” she said, gesturing in the air with her hands as though she were unfurling a banner. “Rosalind and her story are fictional, but the artist was inspired by the murder of a real French woman named Colette Boucher.”
“I remember reading about her,” I said, still staring at Rosalind’s motionless face. “She was that actress who was murdered by an obsessive fan, right?”
“Indeed. As you can see, poor, dear Rosalind meets the same fate. When all the dioramas are installed, visitors will see our girl leaving her hometown for Los Angeles, striving for and finally achieving her big break, discovering the fame she’d dreamed of isn’t all she’d imagined, and ultimately meeting her untimely demise.”
“The artistry is incredible,” I said, marveling at the miniatures. “Even if the story is a bit gruesome.”
“Exactly. Between the artist’s celebrity, her incomparable work, and the provocative subject matter, I’m expecting this exhibition to draw crowds.” She clasped her hands together and smiled at me, her teeth glittering. “This is where you come in. It’ll make great social media fodder.”
“When
does it open?” I asked, looking around the gallery and trying to imagine what still needed to be done.
“Two months. I’ll need you to hit the ground running and lean hard into the promotion on our social media channels.” She paused and frowned. “I won’t bore you with the details, but there have been some hiccups and we find ourselves extremely behind schedule. Making Rosalind a success is our number one priority. I’m sure you can imagine how devastating it would be for us to have an exhibition of this caliber falter.”
“Totally. You can count on me.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She leaned in close and said, “And just between you and me and the doll, if you can pull this off, there might be a promotion in your future.”
“A promotion?” I repeated, unsure I’d heard her correctly. Less than an hour ago, I had been worried about being let go on my first day and now we were talking about promotions?
“I know it’s unorthodox,” she continued, vibrant lips smiling. “But a little bird told me the Director of Digital Content will be moving on soon, and I have a good feeling about you. If you impress me …”
“Prepare to be wowed,” I said, my voice assured even while my nerves twitched. If I had learned anything from working with social media, it was that pretending to have confidence was just as important as—if not more so than—actually having it.
CHAPTER NINE
AUDREY
I could already taste that promotion, could hear myself saying “I’m Audrey Miller, Director of Digital Content for the Hirshhorn Museum.” Director was obviously more impressive than manager, and digital content sounded far more mature than social media. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother, who always asked why I was “wasting my time” on Instagram, about how what she called my “internet addiction” had earned me not only a sought-after job but a promotion in record time.
But to get that promotion I would have to knock the social media campaign for the Irina Venn exhibit out of the park. I was so excited to get started that, after spending the morning on paperwork and training, I decided to work through lunch. Grabbing my phone and animal crackers for sustenance, I returned to the closed gallery.
The glass cases stretched before me in the darkened room, the fatal story line they contained both intriguing and repulsing me. I approached one diorama at random and peered inside: there was Rosalind, her blonde hair pinned up in tiny curlers, reading a miniature script on a small, threadbare couch, a little can of Diet Coke on the shabby coffee table in front of her. My stomach twisted slightly. Rosalind wasn’t real, but knowing she was based on a real woman made me feel like a voyeur to tragedy.
I shook off my uneasiness, popped a couple of animal crackers in my mouth, and began snapping pictures on my phone. As I captured Rosalind’s tiny face, a dreamy smile that was totally innocent of the horrors yet to come, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.
Stop letting this get to you, I chastised myself. This is just art.
I moved to another diorama, looked into the room, and shrieked.
A pair of flat, dark eyes were staring at me through the glass.
I stumbled backward in surprise, and the owner of the eyes straightened, revealing himself to be a blocky man in his early twenties, his black clothing blending into the dark and his face shadowed by a baseball cap.
“What are you doing in here?” I demanded, affecting my best authoritative voice as I placed a hand over my heart in an effort to control its panicked rhythm. “This gallery is closed.”
He cocked his head at me. “Do you know who I am?”
I faltered, suddenly unsure whether he was a fellow museum employee.
He smiled at my unease and took a step toward me. “Which scene’s your favorite?”
The predatory look in his hooded eyes sent shivers down my spine, and I was suddenly certain that this man was no colleague of mine.
“You need to leave,” I said firmly. “Now, before I call security.”
“Relax,” he said, holding up meaty palms in mock surrender. “I’m going.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and sternly watched as he ambled to the exit. Before he passed through the screens, he paused and looked over his shoulder. A slow smile spread across his face and he said, “I like the one where the guy’s outside the girl’s window with a hatchet.”
I stretched my lips into a tight smile to conceal my fear. “Enjoy the rest of your visit.”
He smirked and waved. “Later.”
Heart jackhammering inside my chest, I followed him out and stared hard at his back, not looking away until he disappeared down the escalator and out of view.
* * *
I READILY ACCEPTED an invitation to grab a drink with my new colleague Lawrence. He’d amused me with his collection of dad jokes, and, besides, Cat had canceled on me and I was in no hurry to return to my lonely apartment. But just as Lawrence and I were heading out, someone called him back to address something.
”This’ll just take a minute,” he promised.
“Take your time,” I said. “I’m going to wander around outside.”
The lush oasis nestled between the Hirshhorn and the Art and Industries Building had caught my eye on my way to work that morning, and I headed over to check it out. The vibrant shrubbery, tumbling vines, and attention-seeking flowers were even more beautiful than they’d seemed that morning, and I began snapping photos of them on my phone.
Perfect, I thought as I paused to check my work. Later, I would increase the saturation to make the colors really pop, and then I’d choose the best image to upload to my Instagram grid. It would make an excellent advertisement for my collection of presets—assuming I ever got my act together to finish them. Every day, I got dozens of messages from followers asking when my presets, which would allow them to easily adjust their own photos in Lightroom to match my aesthetic, would be ready. Soon, I kept telling them. And they’re worth the wait!
My stomach growled as I circled the exquisite central fountain, an audible reminder that I had skipped lunch. I hope Lawrence takes me somewhere with food, I thought, digging the animal crackers out of my bag. I was lifting one to my mouth when I felt a crawling sensation on the back of my neck. I glanced uneasily around, but I was alone in the garden, save a pair of sparrows frolicking in the water.
I turned my attention back to my snack, but almost immediately had the same, unmistakable feeling of being watched. I froze in place, holding my breath and straining my ears.
And there it was: the sound of a footfall behind me.
I spun around just in time to see a dark sleeve disappearing behind a hedge.
I hurried to the hedge and peered around it. The National Mall sprawled before me, thousands of people strolling along, taking photos, chasing children, walking hand in hand. My eyes quickly jumped to the handful of dark shirts I saw: a tall woman rushing away, a man in a Washington Nationals baseball cap hunched over his phone, a man zooming by on an electric scooter. I blinked and realized there were dozens more dark shirts, moving quickly all over the Mall. It was impossible to tell who—if anyone—had been in the garden with me.
You’re just jumpy from seeing that weirdo in the Rosalind exhibit, I told myself. No one was watching you.
Still, I shivered despite the oppressive heat.
CHAPTER TEN
HIM
I regularly fantasized about the demise of my immediate family. Sometimes I imagined a terrible accident, like a carbon monoxide leak or an electrical fire, and driving up to the sprawling suburban home to find it consumed by flames, every single member of that detestable group trapped inside. Other times I envisioned doing the deed myself, lacing a meal with rat poison and watching as they all choked to death.
More than a little unnerved and worried I might end up emulating Ronald DeFeo Jr., I sought the advice of a licensed therapist. Within the first five minutes, he told me everything I needed to know: having occasional inappropriate thoughts (or intrusive thoughts, as he called them) wa
s normal and didn’t necessarily mean I would slaughter everyone in their sleep. He then told me I had unresolved feelings of resentment toward my family and wanted to schedule weekly sessions at nearly two hundred dollars an hour to work through them. I declined. I didn’t need a professional to tell me I resented them, and I certainly didn’t need to sit there and listen to a stranger’s advice on how to “resolve” that resentment. My family, particularly my parents, had the emotional capacity of cats. They knew how you felt; they simply didn’t care.
If not for my weakness for creature comforts, I would have walked away from them years ago. But I took their money and continued to suffer through the weekly dinners at my parents’ home, where my brothers, their families, and I dutifully assembled to pay homage to the idea that we were a functioning family unit.
Surviving these dinners without stabbing myself or someone else was a herculean task. Inevitably, my father played back-seat quarterback with my career, while my mother preferred to focus on the shortcomings of my personal life. Every week, when she mentioned my failure to produce children, my middle brother, Tag, considered that his cue to say, “No kids we know of, at least,” a bawdy joke that somehow never lost its appeal. Every time it was uttered, my father and oldest brother, Simon, laughed appreciatively while my mother looked scandalized, and I wondered if I was stuck in a time warp.
The dinners were so formulaic that I could predict the menu, conversation, and how much my mother would drink down to the smallest margin of error. So when Simon’s wife, Leigh, turned to me and asked whether I was seeing anyone, I wasn’t surprised and had my standard answer about focusing on my career ready to go.
Before I could open my mouth, Leigh’s seven-year-old daughter, Esther, interjected, “Why do you always ask this? You know he just drives everyone away.”
Those were almost certainly Leigh’s words that Esther was parroting, and Leigh had the decency to look mildly embarrassed, while everyone else simply nodded in agreement.
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