The final event of the season was a private showing at the city's most prestigious modern art gallery. The room was a stark, white void, filled with abstract sculptures and paintings that looked like splatters of ink. It was the perfect place for people to hide in plain sight.
Tessa was fluttering around the room, discussing the "emotional resonance" of a piece that looked like a giant rusted nail. I stood beside her, but my focus was on Charles. He was talking to the gallery owner, his hand resting casually in his pocket, but his eyes were locked on mine.
He gave me a look—a sharp, commanding glance—and then walked toward the back of the gallery, toward the restricted storage area.
I waited three minutes. Then, I whispered to Tessa, "I think I see a restroom up there. I'll be right bac
