Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(24)

She flipped on the light switch in the rear corridor. The floor gleamed with fresh wax. The faint hum of a floor cleaning machine placed the cleaning crew in the exhibit part of the museum. She walked down the hall.

Why was she here?

Because she couldn’t go home. Once she’d left the police station, she’d thought of one other spot the knife could have been placed by accident. If she could just find the reproduction, the museum could be absolved. She could be absolved.

Poor Riki’s death wouldn’t be her fault. She wouldn’t lose her job—and disappoint her father again. All she had to do was find the knife and prove it wasn’t the murder weapon.

She bypassed her office, then stopped. A light shone from under her door. Puzzled, she checked the doorknob. Locked. She took out her key and went inside. Nothing seemed amiss. The janitor must have forgotten to turn off the light. She switched it off, locked up, and went back into the hall. At the end of the corridor, the elevators banked the left wall.

Louisa and April had double-checked the entire Celtic Warrior exhibit. Other curatorial staff had been asked to inventory the other museum collections, and Director Cusack had assigned the search of miscellaneous prop and costume rooms to office employees. She was sure the office workers had done their best, but the extra storage room was the junk drawer of the museum. A second search couldn’t hurt.

She scanned the packed shelves. Everything from fake rocks to urns to rubber insects was stored up here. Props supplied the details that brought the past to life. Could someone have put the replica knife up here? She sighed. In the back of the room were drawer units to hold smaller pieces. Shelves and drawers were labeled and ordered alphabetically. But she was looking for a misplaced item. It could be anywhere.

She started searching nearest the door, moving methodically from bottom to top, left to right. The shelving units contained the larger pieces, and she moved through them steadily with no sign of the missing knife. Something glittered at the back of a shelf. On her knees, she brushed the fronds of an artificial fern aside. Not the knife. Just a small gold-toned pedestal that might be used to display a piece of pottery or a sculpture. She sat on a step stool, took off a shoe, and rubbed her aching toes. She should have stopped at home to change before beginning her search. But she’d been consumed by the thought that the knife could still be here somewhere.

She’d need to leave soon, though. The dog would have to be walked.

She pulled her phone from her purse and checked the display. She’d been searching the museum for hours. She’d missed a call from Damian, but he’d sent a text: CONOR BEING RELEASED. CALL U TOMORROW.

What did that mean? Were the police charging him? Did he have to post bail?

She dialed Damian back, but the call went to voice mail. She left a message.

A metallic ping rang through the room. Louisa’s head swiveled toward the open door, hidden behind the tall rows of shelves. A musket ball rolled past the aisle. Her heart skipped. Had her search knocked the small metal ball from its container? Slipping off her remaining pump, she climbed to her feet, heels dangling from her fingertips. The lights went out, leaving the windowless room black.

She froze.

The lights were on an energy-saving motion timer. Had she been too still?

Fabric rustled in the hallway. One of the cleaning staff? Another employee? She hadn’t seen anyone else when she’d come in, but that didn’t mean another curator hadn’t decided to put in some overtime. Every department head wanted his or her exhibit to be perfect for the fund-raiser on Saturday night.

She opened her mouth to call out, then closed it, instinct and fear constricting her voice box.

She was being ridiculous. There were a number of people in the building at night, including cleaning and security staff, but seeing those pictures of Riki had sent her imagination into overdrive. Regardless, it was time to go.

Her grip tensed on her phone. She pointed it at the floor and sidled toward the door. Her elbow bumped something solid. She whirled. A face and bald head stared back at her. Louisa staggered backward, terror clogging her throat, locking her scream behind her sternum. She tripped and fell on her butt. Primal fear sent her bare feet out into a solid kick. The figure toppled, landing on top of her. She pushed at it. Her hands encountered plastic instead of skin or fabric.

A mannequin.

She shoved it away and skittered backward, crab-fashion. Panting, she pressed a hand to her chest. Beneath her breastbone, her heart banged against her palm, and her lungs worked like bellows. Facedown on the linoleum, the mannequin’s arms were bent at grotesque, unnatural angles. Louisa climbed to her feet. She stepped around the figure and crept to the door, as if it were possible that anyone on the floor hadn’t heard the scuffle.

She was acting like a child who’d imagined a monster under her bed.

Maybe one of the cleaning staff had simply turned out the light on their way out. Except she hadn’t seen or heard anyone on the third floor in the time she’d been here. Had she been so absorbed in her search she didn’t hear another person? It wouldn’t be the first time that work had drowned out the normal sounds around her. She tended to hyperfocus on a task.

But the primitive warning wouldn’t fade. She clenched clammy fingers around her phone and peered out of the storage room. She saw no one in the small beam of light. The corridor light switch was at the end of the hall, near the doors that led to the elevators and stairwell. All the doors on either side of the hall were dark and closed, just as they’d been when she went into the prop room. But none of them were locked. Anyone could be inside.