The word flashes in my mind like a neon warning sign.
Loose end.
The Code says no innocents. But she’s seen my face. She’s seen the body.
If she walks out of here, she goes to the police. A high-profile museum homicide draws the FBI. If the Feds start digging, the Judge is exposed. And if the Judge is exposed, my life is over.
I have two seconds to make a decision that will destroy one of us.
I holster the gun and lunge.
3
IRIS
The service corridor is colder than the rest of the museum. It’s a narrow artery of concrete and fluorescent safety lights, humming with a dying, flickering buzz.
I clutch the vase of white hydrangeas to my chest, the cold water inside sloshing against the glass, soaking the front of my sweater.
My sneakers screech on the linoleum.
Squeak. Squeak.Squeak.
A tiny sound otherwise, it’s deafening in the silence.
I check my watch. Roughly twenty minutes to three.
I have to get to the VIP Study, swap the vase, wipe down any pollen dust, and get out before the system flags the Chairman override as suspicious.
Just fix it,I tell myself.Just fix it and go home.
I force my breathing to even out.
Panic makes you sloppy.
And in my house, sloppiness is a sin.
I can’t afford a trace of those lilies to remain, or I’ll kill a man and sink my father’s ambitions. All because I missed a glaring allergy.
I push through the swinging double doors at the end of the corridor and emerge into the side gallery.
The transition from the sterile, ugly utility hallway to a world of shadows and velvet is jarring.
Usually, I love the museum at night. It feels sacred, a temple to artifacts that have survived centuries of war and chaos. But tonight, it’s a tomb. The statues of Roman generals line the walls, their marble faces twisted in eternal scowls. In the daylight, they look heroic. In the dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the emergency exit signs, they’re judges, watching as I hurry past, their stone eyes tracking the intruder in the dark.
You shouldn’t be here,they seem to whisper.You are going to get caught.
I shiver, hugging the vase tighter. The water is freezing against my skin, seeping through the wool.
I’m ten feet from the door of the VIP Study when I hear it.
Phut. Phut.
It’s a soft sound. Mechanical. Like a staple gun, or a pressurized sneeze.
Then—Thud.
This sound is different. It’s heavy and wet, like a side of beef hitting a butcher’s block.
