We have to get out of here before that happens.
“Let’s call once we’re out and safe, okay?” I drag her to the door that will take us back to the foyer and wince as I push it open gently, inch by inch, half expecting to see a crazed murderer on the other side. My entire upper body sags in relief as the empty corridor opens up before me. “Come on, I left the main door unlocked. We’ll run straight home and smash the first window we see, and then we can call the police.”
Izzy bends down and I wonder what she’s doing until she straightens up, another of the doorstops in her hand. “This will work,” she says numbly, turning it so I can hear the sand shift inside. I remember watching Alessandra kicking one into place, and the feeling of loss is almost overwhelming.
“Can you run with it?” I ask.
Izzy nods and looks at my feet. “Can you run at all?” she hisses.
“You bet I can, but don’t wait for me.”
She snorts at this, though she doesn’t smile. “As if.” She’s right. We won’t leave each other. We never do.
“Okay, we get out of here as quickly and quietly as possible, and then we bolt.” I repeat the plan. “And no more talking.”
Izzy nods, cradling the weight to her chest like a shot put. We tread lightly toward the front door, and I try not to jump every time I see my reflection in the long windows, but I feel like we’re walking through a maze of mirrors. The welcome desk comes into view and we both speed up, heading for freedom. I reach for the handle, ready to feel the cool night air on my face, when there is a creak behind us.
“Oh god.” Izzy groans as something moves in my peripheral vision.
I turn to her as she presses herself against me, my eyes wide as the door to gallery one swings open. A strangled moan leaves my throat as I clutch Izzy’s sleeve, pulling her closer.
A blood-soaked figure stumbles into the foyer.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Noah?” Izzy gasps his nameas he falters in front of us. She instinctively tries to move in his direction, but I keep a tight hold on her. “Are you okay?”
“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice slurring slightly.
I take a step back, pulling Izzy closer toward the door as he moves forward and stands in a slice of light that cuts through from outside.
“Fliss, what are you doing? He needs our help.” Izzy starts toward him again, so I squeeze her arm so hard she yelps.
“You can’t trust him,” I say, loud enough for Noah to hear me too. He squints a little, unhappy at being called out, I’m sure, but I don’t care.
“Fliss, look at him,” Izzy pleads, shrugging me off and lowering the weight. “He’s hurt!”
“How do you know it’shisblood?” I hiss.
Her eyes widen as she realizes what I mean and she stops talking, giving me precious seconds to take in everything I can about the situation. The thought of sitting with Noah in my kitchen only days ago taunts me, but it also stirs a memory. Hetold me he had a heart condition. What if Izzy was right all along and Noah believes that by copying the painter, he can become immortal?
Noah sways a little on the spot, and I study him from head to toe as quickly as I can. His hair is a mess, but that’s not unusual. He seems unsteady, but that could be a ruse, and his pupils are tiny black pinpricks. He looks like he’s on something. My eyes follow a trail of blood that starts at the collar of his light blue T-shirt and soaks the front of it a dirty brownish-red, petering out to a dull splatter on his jeans. The soles of his white sneakers are dark, as though he stepped in Alessandra’s blood. The thought makes my stomach churn.
I clutch the gallery keys between my fingers. If I can get us out, we can lock Noah in while we call the police, and if we can’t, well, the keys are the best weapon I have on me. I inch backward, hoping Izzy gets the memo to follow me.
“What happened, Noah?” I ask, keeping my voice as calm as I can.
“I don’t know.” He reaches a hand up to swipe at his face and then pulls it away, staring at it in confusion. “This isn’t my blood.”
“See?” I whisper. I tug Izzy and nod my head at the door while Noah is distracted. She looks between us both, her expression pained.
“No, it’s hers, the gallery woman…She was soloud.” Noah’s eyes widen but his face is a mask, not betraying any emotion. “Soscared.”
“Alessandra,” I hiss, fury surging. He doesn’t even know her name. How did I not see what he really is, especially after I found Jen’s necklace? My lips burn with the memory of our kiss, making me feel sick.
I lean my weight against the door, praying that in his current state he won’t notice if I push it open slowly. I start talking again to cover the sound of the glass door. “How could you do it?”
“Do what?” he asks, looking up at us as a breath of cool air drifts through the open door. Noah’s expression clears suddenly, his eyebrows narrowing to a point. “What are you doing?”
