Chapter Thirty-Seven
THIRTY-SEVEN
“It must be Alessandra, right?” Izzy stares at me wide-eyed, her voice urgent. “Right?”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking off the fear that’s creeping down my throat. “Of course it is. The front door was locked, and there can’t be many people who have keys. I bet that’s why the alarm didn’t go off either. She’s probably just working late.”
“Should we text? Check it is her?”
“I left my phone at home when I ran out after you.” I wince. “Please tell me you brought yours?”
“Of course I did.” She pulls it from her pocket and frowns. “Two percent battery.” She looks at me apologetically as she opens the messaging app. “It’s ancient. The battery never lasts.”
“It’s fine, just send a quick text and I’m sure she’ll reply straight away.” I watch Izzy type and try not to acknowledge the gnawing sense of dread that fills the foyer. “Anything?”
“It just says delivered.” We stare at the little ticks, willing them to change color, or for a typing bubble to appear, but nothing happens. “I guess she’s working? She might have it on silent.”
“Yeah.” I straighten up and take a deep breath. “Well, we need that key. We could go the back way and avoid all those creepy gallery rooms.”
“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 my pace.
“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 whole body.
The killer hasn’t finished posing her yet. We must have interrupted him when we entered the gallery.
Those were his footsteps 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.
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.