Chapter Thirty-Nine
THIRTY-NINE
“I don’t feel good about this.” Izzy is patrolling the tiny alleyway, making me even more anxious. “Splitting up seems stupid.”
“Stop pacing,” I say. “We have to do two things at once, and this is the best way I can think to do it.”
Izzy pauses and lets out a sigh. “I still think we should stay together.”
“But what if we’re too late? We locked Noah in there with a head injury and a serial killer.” Izzy flinches as I say this. “If he is a victim, then he’s been drugged. I need to at least try to help him.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know.” I pause, because I can’t promise I will come through this unscathed.
The killer might have only planned four murders, but I know that when someone this unhinged is hell-bent on finishing something, they’ll do anything to get to the end point.
Including dealing with interlopers, like me.
“I’ll be careful, I promise. We have a plan, remember? ”
“Yeah.” Izzy wraps me in a hug. “I’ll get help and be with you as quick as I can. I love you, Fliss.”
“I love you too,” I mumble into her hair before pulling away. “Now go.”
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.
You have to 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 helpful what if he’s not, but I ignore it. I can’t let myself think like that.
He has to 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.
If they 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.