Follow Me(52)

“What do you mean?”

“I was his plus-one to a family wedding this one time, and his brother was telling me—” She broke off into laughter. “No, I shouldn’t repeat it. Nick would kill me.”

“You can tell me,” I insisted. “I’m your best friend.”

“I know,” she said lightly. “But I really shouldn’t. Let’s just say that Nick hasn’t always been the best with the ladies and leave it at that.”

“I—”

“Did you hear that?” Audrey interrupted.

“Hear what?”

She looked over her shoulder anxiously. “I think someone’s been following us.”

I turned around and studied the sidewalk behind us. There were a handful of people coming and going, none of whom seemed to be paying us any undue attention. “I don’t see anything suspicious. Let’s just get home, okay?”

Audrey nodded and stepped up her pace. “Oh, and did I tell you Max has already texted me to ask for a second date?”

“That’s great. What are you guys going to do?”

She wagged a finger teasingly and said, “I said he asked, not that I accepted.”

“But I thought you were just telling me what a great time you had.”

“Well, yeah. But I don’t want to seem too eager,” she explained, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s how you scare a guy away.”

Briefly, I flashed back to the night of the preview at the Hirshhorn, more than a week ago. As Connor and I shared an Uber back to Dupont Circle, I had suddenly blurted out an invitation to come over for a drink. Eager. Way too eager. Connor mumbled something about an early call, and we avoided each other’s eyes for the rest of the ride. Since then, our conversations had been stilted and awkward. Audrey was right; that was how you scared a guy away.

“Anyway, I won’t leave him hanging for too long,” she said as we turned onto the path leading to her building. “Do you want to come in?”

“Thanks, but I should really get home. I’m exhausted and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

“All work and no play—” Audrey began, but the sound of shoes scuffing on the quiet sidewalk made us both turn around. My blood went cold as I saw the edge of a shadowy figure dart behind a tree.

“Come on,” I hissed, grabbing her tightly by the arm. “You’re not staying here tonight.”

I kept my fingers wrapped tightly around Audrey’s sculpted upper arm as we ran down the darkened street together, both our breathing rapid and frightened. Audrey was right. Someone was following her. I threw a glance over my shoulder, terrified that I would see the figure chasing us, but the street was dark and silent. I stared hard at the tree, searching for human movement, and saw none. I began to wonder if my eyes had been playing tricks on me.

When we reached the corner, Audrey wrenched her arm free from my grasp and shouted back down the street, “I’m not afraid of you!”

As her clear voice rang out, I was certain a head peered around the corner of the tree. I caught my breath and squinted, trying to make out any identifiable features, but it was too dark. I thought I saw the outline of a baseball hat, but I couldn’t be sure. And then it disappeared.

“Did you see that?” I whispered.

Audrey nodded, her eyes wide and fearful in the moonlight. “Do you think he was following us? I mean, do you think that was random or that he was after us?”

I shook my head uneasily, not wanting to say what I was thinking: He wasn’t after us. He was after you.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX





AUDREY


The day that The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose opened, I was too nervous to consume anything other than coffee and a banana. I knew the exhibit would be a success—the preview had gone well, we’d gotten positive coverage in the Post, and the images I’d been sharing online were generating tons of engagement—but my stomach still swarmed with butterflies, their wings furiously beating a chorus of Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up. I needed to prove myself to Ayala, not just for the promotion but also so that I could finally, definitively show her and everyone else that I was made for this line of work, that my lack of an advanced degree meant nothing.

I spent the entire morning in the gallery, streaming microinterviews with museumgoers and uploading crowd shots. After spending so many weeks virtually alone with Rosalind, I felt oddly protective of her. When I overheard someone dismissively say “that fame-hungry bitch deserved what she got,” rage clouded my vision and I wanted to stomp over and demand they show some respect. I took a deep breath, restrained myself, and instead cheerfully suggested they check out the accompanying video from the artist—in which Irina Venn discussed how easy it was to blame ambitious women for their own demise, and how that was something she hoped to confront in the exhibit.

That misogynist was the outlier; almost everyone else who walked through the gallery seemed to understand the gravity of the dioramas before them. Some were affected by it more than others. I watched as one woman with long, silky black hair stared into the final glass case, in which Rosalind’s small body lay dismembered. She had been frozen in place for several minutes wearing an expression of muted horror, and as I watched a tear well in her eye and her lips press into a thin line, I suddenly understood: this hit too close to home for her.