“I didn’t notice you had one.”
He smiled. “Oh, I think you noticed.” He stepped closer. They were almost touching as he said, “A little bit.”
“Hale—”
“If I kill Taccone, would that help your dad?” Hale asked, and Kat was too tired to gauge if he was joking. “Marcus would do it,” he added. “I’ve always told him his job description was up for modification. Or Gabrielle? She’s got this nail file— thing’s like a switchblade.”
“And you’ve seen a lot of switchblades on Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Hey, the Yacht Club loves a good rumble.”
It was funny. He was funny. Kat wanted to laugh. She tried to will herself to do it. To dance. To be the girl she’d tried—and failed—to be at Colgan.
But instead she inched away from the very kind, very funny, very handsome boy who had followed her into the dark, somehow bringing the music with him.
“Why are you doing this, Hale?”
“What?” he said. He was still too close.
“You could do anything,” she said softly, looking down, wanting him to hear her but not see her. “Why are you doing this?”
His arm was warm against hers. “I always wanted to do the Henley.”
“Can you be serious for a second?”
“Dance with me.”
“What?” she asked, but his arms were already going around her waist. He was already holding her tightly against him.
“Dancing. Come on. You can do it. It’s a lot like navigating through a laser grid. It requires rhythm.” He moved her hips to the beat of the distant music. “And patience.” He spun her out slowly and back toward him. “And it’s only fun if you trust your partner.” The dip was so slow, so smooth, that Kat didn’t know it was happening until the world had already turned upside down and Hale’s face was inches from her own.
“Count me in, Kat.” He squeezed her tighter. “You should always count me in.”
In the hours that followed, a simple kind of peace fell over Wyndham Manor.
Marcus and Nick disappeared inside their third-floor bedrooms. The Bagshaws fell asleep in the solarium while the phonograph played and the party continued in their dreams. Gabrielle did her nails and, for practice, picked Simon’s pocket—twice—before going upstairs and crawling into bed.
Only two members of the party did not find easy sleep.
Kat sat at the base of the stairs for a long time, looking at the pictures, reminding herself of exactly what was at stake.
Uncle Eddie was on his favorite bench. Gabrielle was still more beautiful than any one person ever had the right to be. And Hale was right, Kat had to admit: Taccone’s picture really did capture his good side.
But it was the picture of her father that Kat looked at the longest. She studied the familiar square, the people in the crowd. Amelia Bennett was there, in the background, and somehow Kat felt relieved, remembering that someone was still watching over her father, even if she couldn’t. But then Kat saw someone else.
She fought the urge to curse or feel like a fool. Instead she sat quietly and said, “Oh boy.”
Hale was the only other person still awake. He’d gone into the pantry and closed the door. Standing among the cans of tomato sauce and bags of flour, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
“Uncle Eddie,” Hale said slowly. He took a deep breath. “I think I need your help. Who do we know in Paris?”
3 Days Until Deadline
Chapter 27
In her dream, Kat heard the music. It was louder there, away from the garden, echoing off the glass walls and tiled floors. She looked for Hale, but he was gone, lost among the Henley’s crowd. She craned her neck, searching. But the sun streaming into the room was too bright; the music was too loud. And yet, no one was dancing.
“Hale!” Kat called. “Gabrielle!”
Something was wrong, Kat knew, but it was too late to stop it . . . to stop . . . something.
“Hale!” she called again, but his name was drowned out by the sound that echoed through the atrium: a roar like thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. But outside there was only sun—no clouds, no storm. And yet inside it was raining. A dark cloud formed, blocking out the light as people ran and cried and screamed. But Kat stood still beneath the pouring rain, staring through the parting crowd at a woman near the entrance in a bright red coat and patent leather shoes, staring back at her.
“Mom?” Kat’s voice was barely audible over the approaching police sirens, the museum’s blaring alarms. “Mom!” Kat cried again. She pushed against the sea of bodies, following the woman outside.
And just that quickly, the sun was gone. Night had fallen. The rain began to freeze, and her mother’s red coat stood out against the white blanket of snow that covered the city’s streets.
“Mom!” Kat called, but the woman didn’t turn. “Mom, wait for me!”
Kat ran faster, trying not to fall, but the snow was too deep; her hands grew cold. And in the distance the alarms were still ringing.
I should hide, she thought. I should run. But instead she followed in the woman’s footsteps, searching for the red door, the red coat.
“Mom!” The snow was coming faster now, covering the footprints. “Mom, come back!”
Snowflakes clung to her lashes, ran down her face like tears, while the sirens grew louder, closer, pulling Kat from a dream she didn’t want to leave. She reached out as if there were a way to hold on to the snow, to the night. But the noise was too loud. Kat opened her eyes—she knew her mother was gone and she could not follow.