Page 19 of The Voicemail

“I bet you have,” I mutter as I turn away and storm back toward the guest room.

In the hallway, I stop and look back. He’s still in the kitchen, watching me with something like curiosity. Maybe it’s pride, but I can’t let it sit. I can’t let him win.

“Give me a half day,” I say confidently. “That’s all. Let me go in, work a few hours, and that’ll be that. Deal?”

His jaw clenches and he narrows his eyes at me, like he’s calculating whether this argument is going to go his way. He must decide it won’t, because he finally says, “Fine.”

6

ALEX

Suspicion replaces Elena’s surprise almost immediately. Her face tightens and she crosses her arms.

“Why are you suddenly being so agreeable?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Because I’m going to come to your office with you.”

Her mouth falls open slightly. Then she laughs, short and incredulous. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” I say, grabbing my bag and throwing it over my shoulder.

“You can’t just show up at my work!” she yells at my back as I turn toward the door.

“I can,” I say. “And I am. I’m a rather large donor. No one will find it strange.”

“Of course you’re a donor,” she mutters behind me.

I reach for my phone and text Marco to bring the car around.

“You’ll work. I’ll look around.”

“Then there need to be some ground rules,” she says quickly. “You don’t tell anyone what happened last night unless I say you can.”

“That’s reasonable,” I agree.

“Fine,” she answers. “I’m going to get ready.”

“Good.” I nod. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”

An hour later, Marco pulls up outside Bellamy Fine Art. The rain has stopped, but the city still looks damp and gray. The gallery sits on a narrow street in Chelsea, with black-framed windows and pale stone. It’s exactly the kind of place Bianchi would like. Expensive enough to hide behind. Polished enough that no one would ask questions.

Elena reaches for the handle before Marco can get out. I catch her wrist without thinking. She looks down at my hand like I’ve burned her. I let go immediately. Her eyes lift to mine as she pulls her wrist away. Now it’s my turn to feel it—the sting of rejection.

Marco opens her door. She steps onto the sidewalk and looks both ways before she adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The movement is small, but I catch it. She’s checking her surroundings. It’s probably become so automatic to her in the last few weeks that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

Inside, Bellamy Fine Art is quiet. The main gallery hasn’t opened to the public yet. A woman with a headset walks past carrying a stack of programs. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loudly, then stops as soon as Elena and I step inside.

A woman at the front desk looks up. Her nameplate reads Claire Bell. I know her from the file Luca sent. Twenty-eight. Gallery coordinator. Wants to be important, or at least close enough to important people that someone mistakes her for it.

Her eyes widen when she sees Elena. Then they move to me and stay there.

“Elena,” she says, still looking at me. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

Her voice should sound concerned, but instead it sounds curious. She’s the type who slows down to look at a car accident.

“I’m fine,” Elena says tightly.

Claire glances back at her. “Mr. Bellamy said there was an emergency.”