Follow Me(12)

Ayala laughed. “Meet Rosalind.”

“Is Rosalind . . . dead?” I asked, my skin breaking out in gooseflesh as I leaned forward again to examine the bloody doll.

“She is, yes. Poor Rosalind. It’s called The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose,” she said, gesturing in the air with her hands as though she were unfurling a banner. “Rosalind and her story are fictional, but the artist was inspired by the murder of a real French woman named Colette Boucher.”

“I remember reading about her,” I said, still staring at Rosalind’s motionless face. “She was that actress who was murdered by an obsessive fan, right?”

“Indeed. As you can see, poor, dear Rosalind meets the same fate. When all the dioramas are installed, visitors will see our girl leaving her hometown for Los Angeles, striving for and finally achieving her big break, discovering the fame she’d dreamed of isn’t all she’d imagined, and ultimately meeting her untimely demise.”

“The artistry is incredible,” I said, marveling at the miniatures. “Even if the story is a bit gruesome.”

“Exactly. Between the artist’s celebrity, her incomparable work, and the provocative subject matter, I’m expecting this exhibition to draw crowds.” She clasped her hands together and smiled at me, her teeth glittering. “This is where you come in. It’ll make great social media fodder.”

“When does it open?” I asked, looking around the gallery and trying to imagine what still needed to be done.

“Two months. I’ll need you to hit the ground running and lean hard into the promotion on our social media channels.” She paused and frowned. “I won’t bore you with the details, but there have been some hiccups and we find ourselves extremely behind schedule. Making Rosalind a success is our number one priority. I’m sure you can imagine how devastating it would be for us to have an exhibition of this caliber falter.”

“Totally. You can count on me.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She leaned in close and said, “And just between you and me and the doll, if you can pull this off, there might be a promotion in your future.”

“A promotion?” I repeated, unsure I’d heard her correctly. Less than an hour ago, I had been worried about being let go on my first day and now we were talking about promotions?

“I know it’s unorthodox,” she continued, vibrant lips smiling. “But a little bird told me the Director of Digital Content will be moving on soon, and I have a good feeling about you. If you impress me . . .”

“Prepare to be wowed,” I said, my voice assured even while my nerves twitched. If I had learned anything from working with social media, it was that pretending to have confidence was just as important—if not more so—as actually having it.





CHAPTER NINE





AUDREY


I could already taste that promotion, could hear myself saying “I’m Audrey Miller, Director of Digital Content for the Hirshhorn Museum.” Director was obviously more impressive than manager, and digital content sounded far more mature than social media. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother, who always asked why I was “wasting my time” on Instagram, about how what she called my “internet addiction” had earned me not only a sought-after job but a promotion in record time.

But to get that promotion I would have to knock the social media campaign for the Irina Venn exhibit out of the park. I was so excited to get started that, after spending the morning on paperwork and training, I decided to work through lunch. Grabbing my phone and animal crackers for sustenance, I returned to the closed gallery.

The glass cases stretched before me in the darkened room, the fatal story line they contained both intriguing and repulsing me. I approached one diorama at random and peered inside: there was Rosalind, her blonde hair pinned up in tiny curlers, reading a miniature script on a small, threadbare couch, a little can of Diet Coke on the shabby coffee table in front of her. My stomach twisted slightly. Rosalind wasn’t real, but knowing she was based on a real woman made me feel like a voyeur to tragedy.

I shook off my uneasiness, popped a couple of animal crackers in my mouth, and began snapping pictures on my phone. As I captured Rosalind’s tiny face, a dreamy smile that was totally innocent of the horrors yet to come, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.

Stop letting this get to you, I chastised myself. This is just art.

I moved to another diorama, looked into the room, and shrieked.

A pair of flat, dark eyes were staring at me through the glass.

I stumbled backward in surprise, and the owner of the eyes straightened, revealing himself to be a blocky man in his early twenties, his black clothing blending into the dark and his face shadowed by a baseball cap.

“What are you doing in here?” I demanded, affecting my best authoritative voice as I placed a hand over my heart in an effort to control its panicked rhythm. “This gallery is closed.”

He cocked his head at me. “Do you know who I am?”

I faltered, suddenly unsure whether he was a fellow museum employee.

He smiled at my unease and took a step toward me. “Which scene’s your favorite?”

The predatory look in his hooded eyes sent shivers down my spine, and I was suddenly certain that this man was no colleague of mine.