I stop mid-step, my pulse jumping in my throat.
A guard?
It has to be. One of the night patrolmen must have tripped, or maybe he dropped a flashlight. I scramble for a logical, safe explanation. A falling book. A shifting statue.
“Hello?” I call. The word barely clears my throat before the museum swallows it.
I wait.
Nothing.
Every instinct I have honed over the years walking on eggshells tells me to run. If you’re not supposed to be here, don’t be seen. My father’s rules are etched into my DNA: Be invisible. Be perfect. Be gone.
But then I think of the lilies.
I swallow the lump of terror in my throat and step forward.
The VIP Study’s door is slightly ajar. As I get closer, I see why. The wood around the lock is splintered, jagged shards sticking out where the mechanism has been forced.
A warning bell blares in my mind, but my momentum carries me forward. I nudge the door open with my shoulder, tightening my grip on the vase until I’m afraid the glass might crack in my hands.
I step into the room, a rehearsed apology already rising to my lips. It never leaves my mouth. My eyes land on the center of the rug. The breath punches out of my lungs.
The vase slips from my fingers.
CRASH.
Glass shatters against the marble floor, spraying water and white petals across my ankles. Shards of crystal skitter across the room like diamonds, sliding over the polished surface.
But I don’t look down. I can’t.
My eyes are locked on the center of the room where a violent scene spreads like a Renaissance martyrdom painting.
A man lies on the floor. He’s wearing a cheap brown suit with frayed cuffs. His eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling, glassy and vacant. A hole mars his chest, and another decorates his forehead. A pool of blood spreads from beneath him, soaking into the grout of the pristine white tiles.
Wet iron and salt hang heavy in the air. It’s a reek that coats the back of my throat. But beneath that, overwhelming it, is the sickly, cloying scent of the orange lilies sitting on the table.
Standing over the body is a monster.
He is tall, terrifyingly tall, dressed in a black suit that fits his broad shoulders. He’s clutching a thick file folder in his left hand. In his right hand, held loosely by his thigh, is a gun.
A black, suppressed pistol.
He slides the folder into his jacket pocket, completely unbothered, as if he hasn’t ended a human life.
At the sound of the vase shattering, he stops.
He turns slowly, controlled enough to make my skin go cold.
I should turn and run. I should force my legs to carry me back into the rain.
But I am Iris Hale.
I was trained to go quiet. To sit in the corner of my father’s study while powerful men discussed politics, assessing the mood of a room before I breathed. To be invisible.
That training made me a perfect daughter. Tonight, it might also get me killed.
I go still. It’s like my mind steps sideways, leaving my body behind. I watch the room from a distance, cold and unreal, as if I’ve wandered into someone else’s nightmare.
