Seriously, Aud. I just want to know that you’re safe in your own bed.
Annoyed, I responded, I bet you’d like to know that.
Immediately, three dots appeared as Nick typed a reply.
Good night, Nicky, I wrote, and logged out of Messages.
Beside me, my phone buzzed. I glowered and reached for it, ready to cut off Nick’s mode of communication there, too, but saw instead it was a message from Max: I had a really nice time tonight.
A smile spread across my face. I snuggled down in bed and typed out, I did too.
Another text from Nick arrived: Don’t do anything stupid.
I rolled my eyes and turned off my phone, thinking, You’re the only stupid thing I do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CAT
I slipped through the crowd loitering on the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding the tip of someone’s burning cigarette and brushing against someone else’s sweat-covered forearm. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and clutched my bag more tightly against myself, wondering whether I should just go home. I really didn’t want to be pushing myself into this packed bar at nearly midnight on a Friday night, still in my work clothes and carrying a stack of Westlaw printouts in my shoulder bag.
But Audrey had insisted I meet her there, and I was sickeningly eager to hear about last night’s date with Max Metcalf. I’d sat by the phone the entire night, consumed with anxiety. When I didn’t hear from her, I couldn’t decide whether it was a good sign or a very, very bad one. What if Max had told Audrey about camp? What if he had happened to mention there was this nasty rumor that … I’d hardly been able to sleep as panicked thoughts swirled through my mind. Finally, at seven in the morning, I could stand it no longer and texted Audrey. I typed and deleted dozens of permutations before finally landing on: How’d it go?
It took her two hours to respond, and in that time I nearly died a thousand deaths.
Great! she responded. Can’t wait to tell you about it!
Lunch? I typed eagerly.
Can’t, have a meeting. Going out tonight for Lena’s birthday, meet me there and I’ll tell you everything!
And so there I was, elbowing intoxicated strangers in this overcrowded bar as I searched for Audrey rather than drawing a bubble bath and relaxing after a long week. Where is she? I wondered as I wiggled farther into the crowd. If she left without telling me … Finally, I spotted the bright flag of her hair, and I pressed toward her. I tapped her on a bare shoulder and she whirled around, beaming.
“Cat! There you are! Look who I found!”
I blinked when I recognized the man Audrey was talking to as the tattooed bartender from our usual trivia bar. “Oh. Hi. It’s …”
“Eric,” he supplied, his face turned to me but his eyes still on the dangerously low neckline of Audrey’s flimsy white dress. “You’re Cat, right?”
“That’s right,” I said, shoving my hand at him in an attempt to force his gaze anywhere else. “Nice to officially meet you.”
He snickered and shook my hand. “Yeah, you too.”
“Isn’t Cat a riot?” Audrey giggled, throwing an arm around me and inadvertently sloshing her vodka soda on my arm. “Whoops! Sorry, Kitty-Cat.”
“Okay,” I said, taking her firmly by the hand. “We need to get you some water.” I looked pointedly at the bartender to discourage him from following us and said, “Goodbye, Eric.”
“See you around,” he said, his eyes once more on Audrey.
“You should loosen up, Cat,” Audrey said as she followed me to the bar.
“Look, Audrey, I’m tired,” I said. “I came out to see you, but I didn’t know that meant I was going to have to babysit you while you drunkenly flirted with some bartender.”
“Don’t be such a martyr,” she teased. “Besides, I’m over this place anyway. Let’s go home.”
I sighed with relief, and together we began cutting our way through the noisy, sweaty crowd. Halfway to the door, Audrey stopped suddenly and twisted her head around.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” she said, sounding confused. “I just had a really strong sensation that someone was staring at me. But I don’t … Let’s just get out of here.”
I glanced around the room. Out of the corner of my eye, something caught my attention, but before I could focus on it, it was gone. What was that? I wondered uneasily as I followed Audrey out of the bar. I’d had the impression it was a familiar face, but it had moved too quickly for me to recognize it.
Probably just Audrey’s new friend Eric, I thought drily as I stepped outside.
* * *
ONCE WE WERE OUTSIDE in the fresh air, Audrey seemed to sober up a modicum.
“So you won’t believe what happened,” she began. “This was a birthday party for my colleague Lena, right? And I think I’ve told you how much she hates our other colleague Lawrence.”
“He’s the one that assaulted you, right?” I cut in.
“He’s the creep who couldn’t keep his hands to himself,” she said blackly. “So Lena didn’t want him there, and everyone knew it, especially him. And then who do you think showed up?”
“Really? He did?” I said, feigning surprise even though I couldn’t care less about Audrey’s office gossip. All I wanted to know was how the date had gone with Max, whether Max had said anything about me. Whether I needed to worry.
“He totally did. Lena made him leave and—” Audrey cut herself off and glanced over her shoulder.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just thought …” she muttered. Abruptly, she brightened. “Oh! So let me tell you about your friend Max.”
My stomach jumped and I wasn’t sure whether I should correct her on the term “friend.” But before I could decide, she squealed, “First, there was this mansion.”
As Audrey launched into a detailed play-by-play of the date, I began to relax. If anything about camp had come up, Audrey surely would have said something by now. She wouldn’t be describing every piece of artwork in that house or blathering on about some text messages Nick had sent.
“Wait,” I said suddenly. “Nick kept pestering you while he knew you were out?”
She laughed. “Nicky’s just so insecure.”
“I’ve met Nick,” I said, frowning. “ ‘Insecure’ is not a word I would use to describe him.”
She laughed again and leaned toward me, her voice loose as she said, “You didn’t hear this from me, but Nick hasn’t always been Mr. Suave.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was his plus-one to a family wedding this one time, and his brother was telling me—” She broke off into laughter. “No, I shouldn’t repeat it. Nick would kill me.”
“You can tell me,” I insisted. “I’m your best friend.”
“I know,” she said lightly. “But I really shouldn’t. Let’s just say that Nick hasn’t always been the best with the ladies and leave it at that.”
“I—”
“Did you hear that?” Audrey interrupted.
“Hear what?”
She looked over her shoulder anxiously. “I think someone’s been following us.”
I turned around and studied the sidewalk behind us. There were a handful of people coming and going, none of whom seemed to be looking at us in particular. “I don’t see anything suspicious. Let’s just get home, okay?”
Audrey nodded and stepped up her pace. “Oh, and did I tell you Max has already texted me to ask for a second date?”
“That’s great. What are you guys going to do?”
She wagged a finger teasingly and said, “I said he asked, not that I accepted.”
“But I thought you were just telling me what a great time you had.”
“Well, yeah. But I don’t want to seem too eager,” she explained, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s how you scare a guy away.”
Briefly, I flashed back to the night of the preview at the Hirshhorn, more than a week ago. As Connor and I shared an Uber bac
k to Dupont Circle, I had suddenly blurted out an invitation to come over for a drink. Eager. Way too eager. Connor mumbled something about an early call, and we avoided each other’s eyes for the rest of the ride. Since then, our conversations had been stilted and awkward. Audrey was right; that was how you scared a guy away.
“Anyway, I won’t leave him hanging for too long,” she said as we turned onto the path leading to her building. “Do you want to come in?”
“Thanks, but I should really get home. I’m exhausted and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
“All work and no play—” Audrey began, but the sound of shoes scuffing on the quiet sidewalk made us both turn around. My blood went cold as I saw the edge of a shadowy figure dart behind a tree.
“Come on,” I said quietly, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re not staying here tonight.”
I kept my fingers wrapped tightly around Audrey’s sculpted upper arm as we ran down the darkened street together, both of us panting in fear. Audrey was right. Someone was following her. I threw a glance over my shoulder, terrified that I would see the figure chasing us, but the street was dark and silent. I stared hard at the tree, searching for human movement, and saw none. I began to wonder if my eyes had been playing tricks on me.
When we reached the corner, Audrey wrenched her arm free from my grasp and shouted back down the street, “I’m not afraid of you!”
As her clear voice rang out, I was certain a head peered around the corner of the tree. I caught my breath and squinted, trying to make out any identifiable features, but it was too dark. I thought I saw the outline of a baseball cap, but I couldn’t be sure. And then it disappeared.
“Did you see that?” I whispered.
Audrey nodded, her eyes wide and fearful in the moonlight. “Do you think he was following us? I mean, do you think that was random or that he was after us?”
I shook my head uneasily, not wanting to say what I was thinking: He wasn’t after us. He was after you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AUDREY
The day that The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose opened, I was too nervous to consume anything other than coffee and a banana. I knew the exhibit would be a success—the preview had gone well, we’d gotten positive coverage in the Post, and the images I’d been sharing online were generating tons of engagement—but my stomach still swarmed with butterflies, their wings furiously beating a chorus of Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up. I needed to prove myself to Ayala, not just for the promotion but also so that I could finally, definitively show her and everyone else that I was made for this line of work, that my lack of an advanced degree meant nothing.
I spent the entire morning in the gallery, streaming microinterviews with museumgoers and uploading crowd shots. After spending so many weeks virtually alone with Rosalind, I felt oddly protective of her. When I overheard someone dismissively say “that fame-hungry bitch deserved what she got,” rage clouded my vision and I wanted to stomp over and demand they show some respect. I took a deep breath, restrained myself, and instead cheerfully suggested they check out the accompanying video from the artist—in which Irina Venn discussed how easy it was to blame ambitious women for their own demise, and how that was something she hoped to confront in the exhibit.
That misogynist was the outlier; almost everyone else who walked through the gallery seemed to understand the gravity of the dioramas before them. Some were affected by it more than others. I watched as one woman with long, silky black hair stared into the final glass case, in which Rosalind’s small body lay dismembered. She had been frozen in place for several minutes wearing an expression of muted horror, and as I watched a tear well in her eye and her lips press into a thin line, I suddenly understood: this hit too close to home for her.
I was about to approach her when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stiffened. Brandon, the so-called president of my fan club and Senator Potts’s son, had been skulking around the gallery earlier, giving me his usual dead-eyed grin from underneath his hat. I prepared a fake smile befitting a major donor and spun around.
The smile dropped from my face when I saw it was Lawrence, wearing his orange shirt and an irritatingly casual smile.
“Amazing turnout, huh?”
I gritted my teeth so hard they squeaked. Since the preview two weeks ago, my surprise and disgust with Lawrence’s behavior had simmered and concentrated until it was thick, viscous rage. His appearance at Lena’s birthday party had only further cemented my anger. I was furious with him for cornering me like that and furious with him for trying to laugh it off like it was just a joke, and I was furious with myself for not reporting him. I knew that if it had happened to a friend, I would be shocked they hadn’t called their boss immediately and had not relented until the aggressor had faced consequences. But it hadn’t happened to a friend; it had happened to me, and I was all too aware that Lawrence had been working at the museum for years, while I was just a newly hired, underqualified Instagrammer angling for a promotion she didn’t deserve. I didn’t want to hold him accountable at the expense of my own career.
He squinted at me. “Everything okay?”
“Yep,” I said tersely.
“Are you sure?” he asked, reaching out to touch my arm.
His fingertips grazed my skin, and my vision tilted as I remembered the way he’d laid his hands on me that night. I snatched my arm away and growled, “Keep that hand to yourself if you want to keep it at all.”
“Whoa, who pissed in your coffee this morning?”
All my pent-up fury gathered on the tip of my tongue, and I felt myself on the verge of lashing out. I forced myself to swallow my anger before I caused a scene and risked the credibility I’d been working so hard to build. This scumbag was not going to cost me my promotion.
“I don’t want you to touch me,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and professional.
“Audrey—”
“No. I didn’t want you to touch me the night of the preview, and I don’t want you to touch me today, tomorrow, or ever. Got that?”
Without waiting for a response, I turned purposefully on the metal heel of my favorite pointy-toed pumps and marched toward the door. As I strode out of the room, pulse thundering, the black-haired woman caught my eye and smiled.
* * *
I WAS READY TO COLLAPSE by the time I left the museum. My feet, legs, and back ached from stalking the gallery all day in four-inch heels, and my eyes felt glazed from staring at my phone screen as I posted images and responded to comments. I’d planned an indulgent evening of self-care: a long, hot shower; a crisp glass of cool wine—I’d sprung for a twenty-five-dollar bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc from the cute wine shop on my street—and testing out an overnight hydrating mask (which had been sent to me by a new organic skin-care company) while watching Netflix in bed. I was already thumbing through the programming options on my phone as I walked home.
I looked up as I neared the apartment, and my stomach sank. Ryan, wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and with his brown hair hanging lankly around his shoulders, sat idly on the steps, drinking a canned energy drink and smoking a cigarette. As if he had been waiting for me, he raised his head and met my eyes. Holding the cigarette between his thumb and first finger, he took a long drag and then smiled, letting the smoke escape from the gaps in his teeth.
“Hello, neighbor.”
“Hi, Ryan,” I said faux brightly as I continued to my apartment.
He leaned over the stairs as I unlocked my gate, and I said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t ash that cigarette on my head.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked in his cagey way.
Why, so you know whether it’s safe to break in or not? I thought. I flashed him a saccharine smile and said, “Sharpening my knives.”
He burst out with a shrill, hyenalike cackle. I shuddered and hurriedly let myself into my apartment. As I carefully engaged each of my three locks, I could still hear hi
m howling with laughter. Hoping to drown out the unsettling noise, I opened my laptop and chose a Spotify playlist heavy on my current favorite band, Ted and the Honey. I turned up the volume until I could hear nothing other than the music, then hopped in the shower.
I emerged refreshed and relaxed, and, still wrapped in my towel, headed to the kitchen for that sauvignon blanc. I’d just finished pouring a glass when my buzzer sounded.
I jumped, sloshing wine onto the tile. I glanced uneasily toward the door. Ryan?
The buzzer sounded again, this time holding its earsplitting note for an extended period.
Goddamn Ryan, I thought angrily. How would he like it if I went up there and harassed him?
I was looking for Leanne’s contact number on my phone when it vibrated in my hand with a text from Nick: I can hear you in there. Let me in!
I cautiously opened the door to find Nick, tanned and grinning. Ocean-colored eyes twinkled as they surveyed my towel-clad body, still beaded with water, and he let loose a slow wolf whistle.
I swatted at him. “Stop it.”
“Nice of you to get dressed up for me.”
“Yeah, well, if I’d known you were coming, I would have baked a cake,” I said sarcastically. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” he said, tossing me a wink as he sauntered in. “Jesus, babe, you have the worst taste in music. If it’s not that seventies post-punk garbage, it’s this pretentious indie rock crap.”
“We can’t all stan for Maroon 5,” I teased, snapping shut my laptop before he could start messing with my carefully curated playlists. The last time Nick had gotten his hands on my Spotify account, he’d snuck a bunch of Maroon 5 and Coldplay songs into my playlists and it had taken me weeks to root them all out. “Hands off.”
“That’s not what you usually say,” he said with a smirk, and then gestured to my wine. “What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?”
“Be an invited guest?”
He put a hand over his heart in a mock-wounded gesture, and I laughed. I gave him a hard time, but I was secretly glad he was there. It had been a busy day, and I missed being able to come home after days like that and discuss them with Izzy.
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