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They hang on the sliding walls, front and back. Some are large enough that they stand alone. Others are grouped, two, three, four to a wall.
We’re staring at well over a billion dollars of art, completely separate from the Vermeer.
“Were they all stolen?” Traps asks.
“I don’t know. I haven’t read about any of them.”
I take out my phone and start to snap pictures. This time, I go through the display walls methodically, sliding out the first, cataloging the treasures on the front, then the back. With Trap’s help, I work my way through all twelve walls, until we’re back to the Vermeer.
“Wait,” I say. “We didn’t see what’s behind this one.” Together, Trap and I walk around the wall to see if anything’s hanging on the back.
And I’m hit with a surprise that nearly sends me to my knees.
The back of the gallery—the space that could be built out with more display walls if necessary—has been set up as a little room. There’s a chair. And a lamp. And wooden shelves built into the back wall, cluttered with items I don’t take the time to see.
The chair draws me like a magnet. It’s been the backdrop of my nightmares for more than two years. Its wooden feet are shaped like claws, evil talons fastened around carved mahogany balls. It’s filthy, smeared with greasy russet and brown stains that are ground into the upholstery.
My stomach lurches. Acid scorches my throat. I whirl, pushing past Trap, staggering to the front of the gallery. Starting to retch, I don’t have time to find a trashcan. I stumble into the corridor and heave up peaches and coffee.
When I close my eyes, I’m back in Herzog’s prison. He’s bending me over that hideous chair, he and his brothers. That’s where they broke me. That’s where they used the copper cruet.
My eyes stream. My nose runs. I try to stand, but my stomach rebels again. I brace my hands on my thighs and lean over, choking out weak streams of bile.
I feel Trap’s hand on my back, fingers spread between my shoulder blades. He’s warm, when my entire body has turned to ice. He’s solid, when I’m dissolving into space. He’s quiet, when my brain is screaming in protest, howling about every torture I survived at Herzog’s hands.
But Trap is the anchor I need.
I’m safe, for now. Herzog can never hurt me again. Jonas and Ansel aren’t here. They’re never getting access to the freeport.
I spit twice and cautiously pull myself upright.
The concern on Trap’s face is louder than any question. He deserves to know what drove me out the gallery.
But what good will that do? What possible advantage is there for him to hear the details of how they drugged me? Of how they used me until my torn and ruined body collapsed? I don’t even remember it all. I’ve blanked the worst parts from my conscious memory.
I take a deep breath. I’d forfeit the Vermeer in there for a handkerchief and a breath mint. Before I can say anything, though, Trap reaches past me.
“Thanks,” he says, and I realize he’s talking to Mac. My face flames because of the mess I’ve made in the hallway, but Trap just hands me a couple of paper towels. He drops several more over the remnants of my breakfast.
I mop my face, doing my best to blow my nose discreetly. I shove the used paper towel in my pocket.
“Okay?” Trap asks, the single word flooded with an ocean of concern.
I nod.
“I have to go back in there,” he says. “I have to see what’s on those shelves.”
I nod again.
And then, because I can’t let Herzog control me from his grave, I can’t afford to let him win, I follow Trap back into the gallery.
I refuse to look directly at the chair. But the shelves tell their own horror story.
There are metal cuffs. Chains. Gags and muzzles and clamps with spikes. A cattle prod nearly sends me back to the hallway, my flesh remembering Herzog’s heavy hand.
He could have brought me here. He could havekeptme here, bound in this soundproof room. He could have forced me to submit to him forever.
Maybe that’s what he planned the night of the Diamond Ring dinner party. Or maybe he was outfitting this dungeon for future fun and games.
