“Good idea,” Izzy says. We don’t move, both staring down the corridor instead. We do not have good memories here.
“Did she text back yet?” I whisper. Izzy shakes her head. “Then let’s be quick.”
“Are you sure we can’t just break a window at your house?”
“Would you feel safe tonight if we did?” I ask, because I won’t lie, I’d rather smash a window than do this, but I know it’s not a sensible idea.
Izzy opens her mouth and closes it again, shaking her head.“No.”
“Me neither. Let’s look for a key, and if there isn’t one, then smashing a window can be the last resort.”
“Okay.” Izzy looks at her phone forlornly and slips it back into her pocket.
We walk slowly down the corridor, only speeding up when we have to pass the locker room. Images fill my head as I imagine Helen still inside, her blood dry and congealed on the floor, her flesh slowly rotting beneath her bindings. My heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest as we put on a burst of speed, and relief rushes over me as we reach the staff door to the café.
“It’s unlocked,” I say, guiding Izzy into the kitchen. I ignore the itch in my brain that wonders why.
“Does the last person out usually lock up?” Izzy asks quietly as we leave the kitchen and enter the darkened café. She’s obviously thinking the same thing I am.
“I guess so,” I reply, weaving through tables and chairs. “I wonder if Alessandra always works this late. It could be because of that new exhibition Dad mentioned.”
“Yeah, that has to be it,” Izzy agrees, though I’ve never heard her sound less convinced. “Come on, there’s a light out there. Maybe it’s coming from the office.”
“You’re right.”
We leave the café and I keep my eyes on the floor as we enter the last room and approach the office, noticing Izzy does the same. She clearly doesn’t want to risk catching a glimpse of BBK’s self-portrait either. I risk a glance up as we draw closer to the light escaping around the office doorframe, illuminating the tiled floor, almost making it glow. The door has been propped open an inch with a chrome doorstop. I sigh in relief and quicken mypace.
“Alessandra?” I call, not too loudly, because I don’t want to scare her. When there’s no answer, I tap lightly on the door and then stop to listen, in case she’s on a call. Dad always takes them at strange hours if he’s organizing a loan with a foreign gallery. “Alessandra? Can we come in? I need to see if Dad keeps a spare key here.”
Nothing.
“Come on, she’s probably in another room.” Izzy pushes the door the rest of the way, light flooding into the gallery. “Let’s grab it and get out of—”
A metallic tang saturates my senses, the smell so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat, like the time I accidentally bit my own tongue.
“Alessandra?” I croak, stepping into the room on autopilot.Izzy’s breath starts coming in gasps, but I can’t look at her, can’t check if she’s okay, because my eyes are glued to the scene in front of me until my eyes burn and my vision blurs. “No.”
“Is she…?” Izzy says, and I nod, unable to look away. I try to take a breath but can’t because my chest feels like it’s being crushed in a vise. “Then we have to go,” Izzy whimpers, tugging my arm, but I am transfixed. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand and the details come into full focus as Izzy backs away.
Alessandra has been positioned in the center of the small office. Thanks to the rope binding her upper body, she sits ramrod straight on her desk chair, though her shoulders roll forward and her arms and legs hang limp. A pool of red liquid surrounds her feet, and her skin is chalky, far from her usual golden tan. Her brown eyes are no longer warm but empty, and her gaze is fixed on a spot above my head. Her mouth hangs open, stretched a little wider than what I would deem natural. She’s dressed in her usual business-chic attire, though there is one noticeable difference.
“Oh god,” Izzy chokes out. “The Empress.”
She’s right. I picture the tarot card, and the crown of golden stars is almost identical. They surround Alessandra’s head in a mockery of a halo, elevating her to the role of martyred saint. Each one scornfully reflects our horrified faces back at us. It’s only then that I notice the cannula in the crook of her arm, attached to a long, blood-streaked plastic tube that reaches to the floor. I didn’t see these at the other crime scenes and a sudden realization of what that might mean sends a chill over my wholebody.
The killer hasn’t finished posing her yet. We must have interrupted him when we entered the gallery.
Those werehisfootsteps I heard when we walked in.
“Alessandra,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
I turn to Izzy. Her chest is heaving, and tears sting the back of my own throat, but I can’t risk losing it now, not here. The killer is probably still in the building.
“You’re right—we need to get out of here.”
I push Izzy through the door and we run into the café, though it feels more like wading through mud. We make it to the kitchen, where I glance around. Why aren’t there any knife racks in here?
“We should call the police,” Izzy says. She sounds almost calm, but I know that means she’s in shock, because she can’t compartmentalize in the weird way that I can. I’d rather this than her screaming, I suppose, but I know her. It’s coming.