Page 155 of Under the Lies

Silently—it’s been quiet between us since we left the apartment—Noah takes out a key and unlocks the only door on the top floor.

I let him pull me inside the dark room, too afraid I’ll run back down the stairs if he doesn’t. Part of me believes that if I don’t see what lays inside this room, it’s not true. That my grandfather is still the man I’ve always thought him to be.

My granddad was a good man.

My granddad was a thief.

The best.

Noah lets go of my hand and walks farther into the room. I hear his steps, slow and methodic. Then there is silence. Silence and darkness.

And then—a click.

The lights flicker on.

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

At first, I do nothing but stare.

Stare and not comprehend what’s before me.

But it’s not what I thought would grab my attention first.

An entire wall is made up of windows, very much like the ones at Noah’s, looking down on the casino floor.

“How did I not notice this when I was here?” I spin around to see Noah’s still by the light switch, blank-faced.

“This town is an illusion. You only see what we want you to see.” He walks toward me. “We can see you, but you can’t see us.”

Chills caress my arms, my neck.

Breathe, Sayer, breathe.

My eyes stray from the window to take in more of the room.

It’s a museum… if a museum housed stolen artwork.

Paintings are framed on the wall, some trapped in glass casings. Vases and busts sit on ornately carved podiums.

Little plaques are situated beneath each piece. Getting closer, I see that they state the day they were stolen and by who. Chills brush my skin as I run my finger along the closest:

The Baron, 1975.

I trace over each curve and line of every letter, running my nail along the numbers. It’s here right in front of me, but it still doesn’t feel tangible.

“Why are these all here?”

“It’s a holding facility of sorts,” Noah explains. “Where we keep the paintings we want to sell, display the ones we don’t. It’s like our own private museum.”

My mind can’t wrap around this. It’s a fantasyland, a nightmare. I’m still sleeping. I have to be. There’s no other reason.

But no, this is the real world where stories don’t have happily ever afters. Grandpas aren’t only cute little old men who wear newsboy caps and give you chocolate from their sweater pockets.

They’re liars and cheats and sneaks.

“How did I not know?” I ask around the shattering of my heart.

“Because—”

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