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“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she whispers back with a giggle.
“No, you don’t let the bedbugs bite,” I tease.
“No, youuuuu don’t let the bedbugs bite.” She giggles, clamping her hand over her mouth.
I switch on their dresser lamp—a ceramic rainbow butterfly Emma found at some flea market when we were six months along with Adeline a lifetime ago. I dial the dimness down until their bedroom is washed in a dreamy haze of light, and then I pull the door softly shut behind me.
Ten minutes later, I sink into my favorite wingback chair with a freshly poured scotch in one hand and my phone in the other, and I call Margaux.
“Hey,” she answers—her tone still as neutral as it was when we spoke yesterday.
“Meant to call you sooner,” I say. “Just got the girls off to bed. What’s going on?”
“Did you know Halcyon is making a comeback?” she asks.
Of course I know . . . but the more important question is . . . How does Margaux know?
After showing her the studio a while back, I thought she might start piecing things together or at the very least, ask pointed questions. But for some reason or another, she didn’t ask a single one.
It hasn’t occurred to me until now that perhaps Margaux assumes my late wife was Halcyon. Perhaps her lack of inquiring was only a way for her to be sensitive to my loss and to avoid inflicting more pain than necessary by bringing it up.
“Even if I did, I’m not at liberty to say.” I hate that I have to be vague with her, but this is the kind of conversation we should have face to face this Friday. Clearly she has connections in the art world if she heard about Halcyon’s return. One slip of the tongue and my true identity could easily land in the wrong hands. “How did you hear about it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Margaux doesn’t answer me—not right away.
I know there are certain art-collector circles where everything is hush-hush and sources are never revealed, and I would never want her to breach someone’s trust, but I have to ask.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” She feeds my words back to me, though she isn’t being facetious about it.
Fair enough.
Three more days . . .
Three more days until I can tell her everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SLOANE
“Sloane, so sorry to interrupt. I know you’re with someone right now.” My colleague Derrick taps my shoulder and leans close to my ear. “But you have a call on line two. It’s your sister. She says it’s urgent.”
My stomach plummets to the floor faster than the smile fades from my lips.
Margaux has never called me at work.
Ever.
“Would you mind going over our Ronceau collection with Mrs. Seidlin while I take that?” I ask him, doing my best not to showcase the fact that my insides are swarming with adrenaline-hot panic.
“I’d be happy to,” he says with a gracious smile.
I hurry back to the break room, lift the receiver on the wall, and press the button for line two.
“Margaux,” I say. “What’s going on? Why are you calling me at work?”
“Oh my god . . . oh my god . . .”
“What? What?” My heart must be beating at least two hundred miles per hour. The room begins to spin, so I reach for a chair from a nearby table and take a seat.
“I called your cell like fifty times and sent you a bunch of messages,” she says.
“What’s going on? Is it Mom?”
“No.” She exhales, though she’s still very much breathless. “Roman just showed up. He’s here, Sloane. He’s at my office.”
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
“He’s with Theodora right now,” she says, keeping her voice low. I imagine her peeking through the blinds that cover her office window. “He’s been in there for about fifteen minutes. Why is he in there? He’s never come to the office before. Ever. What’s he doing? What does he want?”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe he wanted to surprise you—me?”
“What do I do? What the hell do I do?”
“Get out of there,” I say. “Grab your purse and say you’re taking an early lunch, just . . . leave.”
Ironically this is the most the two of us have spoken all week. Ever since our little blowup Monday night, she’s looked through me like a ghost anytime we’ve been in the same room. Now look at us—coming together for a common cause, though our motivations are quite different.
She doesn’t want to get fired, naturally.
I don’t want him to find out the truth from her of all people.
“What happened to you telling him the truth?” Margaux snips, despite this being the worst possible time for her to start WWIII all over again.
“He told me he’s busy all week . . . we’re supposed to get together Friday. Are you leaving or are you hiding?”
