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But none of that’s a long-term solution.
The long-term solution—one that’ll last for years after the fucking—is to keep Alix’s mind busy. To prove to her, over and over, how much she’s worth.
And I remember a promise I made, one I kept private at the time. One I’m overdue on keeping.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Go where?”
“You’ll find out.”
She laughs in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Clock’s ticking,” I say.
I watch her give in. “What do I need?”
“Nothing.” And then I repeat, “Let’s go.”
She already has her phone in her pocket. And I let her grab her purse. But that’s the only delay I permit before I text Susan Richards and tell her I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day. I also ask her to phone ahead, so Alix and I won’t completely surprise the man we’re going to meet.
11
ALIX
* * *
The crowd moving around me doesn’t seem to notice the ten-foot-tall live flower displays. Not a leaf or petal is out of place. I wonder how often the forest of red and orange and yellow has to be replaced. Maybe the florists work at midnight, so no one ever sees their magic.
“Ready?” Trap asks.
I look past the flowers to a gigantic staircase—the height of four stories and wide enough for an army to march shoulder to shoulder. “Don’t we need tickets?”
“Not for this,” Trap says and leads the way across the lobby.
I’ve never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art before. I’ve read about it in books. Seen pictures. But my mother died before she could take Leo and me to New York. Candace likes the city more for shopping than museums, although she follows the Met Gala every year like she’s some sort of apprentice fashion reporter.
I’m already thinking about the treasures in this building—Impressionist paintings and Egyptian mummies and Tiffany stained-glass windows. Trap and I made good time driving up from Dover, but the museum closes at five, according to a sign at the entrance. We’ll be rushed, trying to take it all in.
And it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes us. Maybe they’ll be polite enough to fake selfies with us in the background. But chances are, they’ll follow us from room to room, video cameras rolling. That’s what happens at the grocery store, at the gas station, any time Trap and I dare to leave the confines of the freeport.
But for now, Trap leads the way, and I follow like a dazed little lamb. We pass through a giant doorway and I stop dead, like I’ve forgotten how to walk.
Books.
I’m surrounded by books. They stretch on, room after room. They’re stacked on giant waist-high tables. They line floor-to-ceiling shelves.
There are hand-size pamphlets. There are coffee-table books the size of a suitcase. There are series covering dozens of artists, and there are ten-volume sets doing deep dives on individual painters and sculptors. Some covers are in black and white. Others are in eye-searing color.
Everywhere I look, there’s something I long to read. In fact, when I step closer to a shelf labeled European Painting 16thCentury, I see some old familiar friends. There’s Mona Lisa’s mysterious smile fronting a three-volume set on Leonardo da Vinci. God and Adam sprawl across a gigantic book about the Sistine Chapel. A pretty Madonna holds a squirming child on a paperback about Raphael.
I know these books. I read them in Herzog’s mansion. I sorted them in one insane flurry of a day—with the help of his other slaves—to meet his heartless deadline. Looking around, I feel like I’m surrounded by family.
“Do you mind if I take a few minutes?” I ask Trap.
“Take all the time you want. That’s why we’re here.”
“I might buy a few,” I warn him.
