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I was reviewing the first wave of comments when a notification popped up that I had a direct message from Irina Venn.

My heart skipped a beat. Why was the artist sending the museum—sending me—a direct message? Had I made a mistake in my last post? Quickly, I reviewed the photo and the spare caption (Meet Rosalind on August 28), but nothing was out of order. I took a deep breath and opened the message.

Whoever is running this account is brilliant. Rosalind thanks you from the bottom of her cold, dead heart. Please contact my assistant Lisa Zimmerli at 212-555-1981.

I had to read the message twice before I fully comprehended its contents, and then I gasped aloud. Brilliant. Irina Venn, a visionary artist whom I had admired for years, thought I was brilliant.

The word “brilliant” was still echoing through my mind as I called the number Irina had given.

“Lisa Zimmerli,” Irina’s assistant answered.

“Lisa, hi,” I said, my voice sounding unnaturally high. “My name is Audrey Miller, and I’m the Social Media Manager of the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden. As you know, we’re exhibiting Irina Venn’s The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose. I just received a direct message from Irina on Instagram asking me to contact you.”

“Of course, yes. Thanks for calling. Irina has been obsessed with your Instagram posts. She thinks you really get Rosalind.”

“I’m so glad to know she’s pleased,” I said, striving to keep my voice professional while every cell of my body shrieked in celebration.

“Very pleased. In fact, Irina has decided to create a video especially for your institution. In it, she’ll discuss her inspiration and process for creating the pieces. She says you’re free to use it however you wish, but she suggests as a complement to the exhibit.”

I had to swallow my scream of triumph. Irina Venn was creating something special for our museum? More to the point, she was creating something because she liked my social media coverage? That promotion was as good as mine.

I promised to connect Lisa with the appropriate person on our end and then hung up, still smiling so hard my face hurt. I spun around, pumping my fist in the air in celebration, and jumped when I found Lawrence standing directly behind me.

“Lawrence! I didn’t know you were there.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. He adjusted his round glasses and gave me a quizzical look. “You look awfully pleased with yourself.”

“That’s because I just got off the phone with Irina Venn’s assistant, and Irina likes what I’m doing with Rosalind on Instagram so much that she’s creating a special video for us to exhibit alongside the dioramas!”

“Wow,” Lawrence said, widening his eyes. “That’s incredible.”

“I know!” I exclaimed, deliriously happy, and threw my arms around him.

If he was put off by my lack of professionalism, he didn’t show it. Instead, he squeezed me back and said, “Congratulations, Audrey.”

? ? ?

I SAW THE bright orange from half a block away. I squinted, confused, as I tried to make sense of the color attached to my gate. Where those . . . flowers? I had been certain I would come home from a late spin class to find Ryan had broken through the new locks and trashed my apartment, but instead . . . there were flowers? As I drew nearer, I was able to confirm that yes, there were in fact flowers—a gorgeous bouquet, bursting with orange roses, brightly colored zinnias, and sprigs of wildflowers—fastened to my front gate.

Carefully, I untied the bouquet and turned it over in my hands, looking for a card. Nothing. I inspected the flowers again, more cautiously this time, searching for evidence that Ryan had booby-trapped them. I stopped short, laughing at myself. What a ridiculous notion. Ryan was the sort of brainiac who thought ringing my doorbell at two in the morning was cutting revenge; he wasn’t clever enough to lure me in with an expensive bouquet of flowers and somehow sabotage them.

Who could have sent them? Nick? In college, he’d had some sort of pathological aversion to flowers, but maybe he’d grown to appreciate their charms since then. Maybe Cat? I’d told her about the incident with Ryan; maybe she had sent them to cheer me up? But no—Cat’s answer would have been that I should move in with her; it wouldn’t be sending flowers. Besides, Cat surely would have mentioned it.

As I fingered the orange blossoms, I suddenly remembered a conversation I’d had with Lawrence the other day. I had been walking by his desk when he stopped me and pointed at his computer screen, where a collared shirt from J.Crew was on display.

“Audrey, you have great style. Help me out. Should I get this shirt in blue or in orange?”

“Orange, definitely,” I’d told him. “It’s more distinctive. And it’s my favorite color.”

He had smiled and clicked, adding the shirt to his shopping cart. “Done.”

Lawrence knew how much I loved the color orange, and he knew about the win with Irina Venn. Besides, with his on-trend glasses, neatly buffed fingernails, and penchant for bow ties, Lawrence seemed like the kind of man who could pick out a killer bouquet. Could he have sent these?

It doesn’t matter, I thought, pressing my face into the bouquet and inhaling the floral scent as I carried it inside my apartment. Never look a gift bouquet in the mouth.

? ? ?

I AWOKE WITH a start, uncertain what had roused me. As I blinked my eyes open in the dark, I strained my ears, listening for something amiss. I heard nothing other than the bright sound of silence. At first, I had found DC’s nighttime quiet unnerving—New York, after all, was never anything less than noisy—but now I relished it.