Page 99 of The Voicemail

Imake it twelve minutes after the gala before I ask Marco to take me to the gallery. He says nothing. That’s how I know he wants to say no.

Marco looks at me in the rearview mirror, then at Alex beside me, then back at the road like the windshield has suddenly become fascinating. Alex’s hand tightens around mine. Just enough.

“That’s not a good idea,” he says. “You need to be in bed.”

“Yet here I am,” I point out. “It’ll be a quick stop.”

His jaw works. Outside the SUV, New York slides past in wet streaks of light. People stand under awnings with drinks in their hands. A couple argues beside a taxi. Someone laughs too loudly near a corner deli. The city looks the same.

Federal agents are probably still collecting phones at the gala. Bianchi is in handcuffs. Claire is somewhere safe with a doctor. Mr. Bellamy will get his own knock on the door any minute now, from the same agents who just took down Bianchi. Everything feels out of control.

“I need to see it,” I say.

Alex watches me. “The gallery?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because I need to know if it still feels like mine.

Because I need to stand somewhere that existed before him, before Tomaso, before Bianchi, before pregnancy tests hidden in the trash and files tucked into forgotten tote bags.

“I just do.”

Alex is quiet for a few seconds.

Then he looks at Marco. “Bellamy Fine Art.”

Marco turns at the next light.

I look down at our joined hands. “You’re not going to argue?”

“Not tonight,” he says softly.

The gallery is dark when we arrive. Marco parks behind the building. Two of Alex’s men already wait by the service entrance. His trust only extends so far.

Alex gets out first. He comes around to my side and opens the door, then stops himself before offering a hand. I stare at him for a second.

“You can help me out of the car,” I say.

His face barely changes, but I see the relief anyway. He offers his hand. I take it.

Getting out of the car hurts. So does breathing. So does just about everything else. The bulletproof vest came off under Alex’s jacket in the backseat, and even without it, my ribs protest every step.

He keeps one hand near me without touching my back. I let him hover. For now.

The emergency lights are on in the gallery. They soften the walls, turn the paintings into darker shapes, and make the front desk look smaller than it ever did when I sat behind it answering phones for people who called artists “investments.”

I stop just inside the staff entrance. Alex stays behind me. So does Marco.

I look over my shoulder. “I don’t need an audience.”

Marco immediately looks at Alex.

Alex looks at me. Then he nods once. “Clear the front. Stay close enough to hear me.”

Marco doesn’t like it. His face makes that clear. He goes anyway. Alex stays by the door. I walk deeper into the gallery alone. Not far. Ten feet, maybe. Far enough.