I walk away first, ignoring the twinge in my gut. I know Izzy won’t move until I do, so I speed up, reaching the courtyard quickly. I faintly hear Izzy making a racket in the opposite direction, shouting and banging on every door she can find, and I take a deep breath. You can do this, Fliss.
Youhaveto do this.
I stand up straight, hoping she finds help soon, and march across the grass until I’m back in front of the gallery doors. I peer through the bloody streaks Noah’s hands have left on the glass.
The foyer is empty.
I bite my bottom lip as I slide the keys into the locks one after another and turn them as silently as I can. I push open the door, thanking the maintenance team for keeping the hinges well oiled. There’s no movement in the building, and I glance down the corridor to make sure I’m not being watched.
The Heywood Gallery is silent.
I tiptoe over to the welcome desk and check behind it, ignoring the flip in my stomach as I make out another bloody handprint on the side. I breathe out slowly—the items Izzy stashed earlier are still there. I slip the paint thinner into the wide interior pocket of my denim jacket, then grab the lighter and put it in the opposite one. I hope Izzy manages to convince someone to let her use their phone so I don’t have to resort to using them. I don’t think about what I promised to do. It will be worth it if Noah is okay. My brain adds a helpfulwhat if he’s not, but I ignore it. I can’t let myself think like that.
Hehasto be.
I look down at my poor choice of footwear and slide off my flip-flops, the tiles cool under my feet. I really don’t want to do this barefoot, but those shoes are not made for stealth. I leave the door unlocked for Izzy and the emergency services when they arrive.
Ifthey arrive.
I retrace my steps through the kitchen and café and try not to think about Alessandra in the office, or what state Noah might be in. As I approach the café’s exit, I realize there’s no light washing across the floor the way it was earlier. I slow down as I reach the partition wall and peek around it. The office door is closed now, the lights off, and the rest of the gallery appears empty. I tiptoe out into the space and walk around to where The Four are on display. It takes a few seconds of staring blankly to realize all four of the paintings have been removed. I dash to the opposite side of the gallery, where the artist’s self-portrait has been exhibited since the day after I found it, but the red velvet curtains frame a bare stretch of wall. What the hell is going on?
I decide to retreat to the café to gather my thoughts when my foot refuses to move with me, sticking to the floor instead. After a moment it peels away with a sucking sound and I look down to see I’m standing in a path of bloody shoe prints that lead from the office into the adjoining room. Alessandra’s blood is coating my foot. Panic claws at me and I clasp my hand over my mouth to stop the scream that bubbles in my throat.
I run back to the café and my foot continues to make that low, sucking noise until I push my back against the partition wall.My entire body heaves with panic. What the hell am I doing in here? I need to wait outside, where it’s safe, not lean against a flimsy wall that I’d get knifed through if this was a horror movie. I move deeper into the café and pinch my upper arm, the pain clearing my thoughts a little.
Think, Fliss.
If there’s a copycat killer in building, I’d bet on the fact that they’re setting up something that gives a nod to the original crime scene, with all of the original paintings in attendance. None of the paintings are massive, but the self-portrait is heavy, and the gold frames on The Four must add to their weight, so it’s not likely someone would be able to carry more than one at a time unless they have superhuman strength.
Please, don’t let them have superhuman strength.
I go into the kitchen and comb through drawers and cupboards for a weapon. I ease the last drawer shut and sigh in frustration—nothing but butter knives and bottle openers. There isn’t even a corkscrew. I open the drawer again and take out a fork, pressing my finger on the tines. They’re so blunt that it might as well be a spoon, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. I decide I’ll have a quick look through the other gallery spaces for Noah and if I can’t find anything, I’ll wait in the courtyard for emergency services to arrive. I’m leaving when a staff notice detailing the upcoming term’s exhibitions catches my eye. Oh my god.
I know where they are.
FORTY
The emergency stairs are dimlylit, the only light coming from the low-watt bulbs embedded in the wall at foot level. They provide nothing but an eerie, otherworldly quality and a low, unsettling hum. The closer I get to the top, the more my anxiety delivers various, ever more elaborate versions of what might be waiting. I try my best to ignore them all and focus on the task at hand: saving Noah.
I climb both flights before I reach the fire door that leads to the top floor. I study the fire escape map that’s screwed into the back of it. It has a helpful little “You are here!” sign, and I trace a finger along the floor plan. The gallery takes up most of the top floor, but to reach it there’s a short run along the top balcony and there are two entrances, one at either end, to allow visitors to go in one side of the exhibition and leave through the other.
I catch my breath and desperately try to formulate a plan that doesn’t involve the lighter in my pocket. I don’t know what I’m dealing with yet, so the only plan I’ve come up with is to get Noah out. I think back on all the media I’ve consumed, books and movies, TV shows about detectives and people investigating crime,and I know that there’s one more thing I can do—something every good profiler does at some point.
I have to put myself in the mindset of the killer.
I try to trace their steps. The emergency staircase starts where The Four usually hang, so it would have made sense for the killer to come this way, bringing the paintings up the closest stairs one at a time. Following the need for ease, when they reached the top floor, they would have probably used the first entrance to the gallery and set up the paintings to echo the original scene with their back to the door. If I can peek in that way, I might be able to see if Noah is there, maybe even find out who’s behind this. If he’s not there, or if I can’t get him out, then at least I can run and alert whoever turns up outside. The killer won’t be expecting company, so they shouldn’t be on alert.
Unless Noah blabbed about Izzy and me leaving him here.
That thought makes me hesitate, and I wish I’d had the foresight to leave my parents a note, just in case, but it’s too late now. I’ve wasted enough time, and I can only follow my gut and hope that Noah’s up here and still alive. That we can safely make it out of here together.
I square my shoulders and try to hype myself up, when something in the shadows of the stairwell catches my eye. I pick up the round object and turn it in my fingers, my eyes widening as I realize what I’m holding. This is exactly the clue I needed.
I know who the killer is.
I pull on the door and it glides open without a sound, buoying my spirits a little. I can do this. I just need to follow theplan. This level is brighter than I expected, moonlight seeping through the skylights, painting the glass-and-metal balcony with lines of silver. I keep away from the side that looks down onto the foyer, instead pressing myself close to the wall so I don’t cast a shadow. The balcony marches straight across to a mirror image of the door I’ve just walked through. Worst-case scenario, I can run in that direction and get out of here. I shuffle along until I reach the first doorway. All the galleries here have tall, wide entrances, and this one is no exception. There’s nothing to hide behind anymore.
I peer round the corner and my shoulders sag. Noah.