Page 84 of The Picasso Heist
“Halston, think about it. If I put that stuff in your file without telling Waxman about it, I’m the one who gets fired,” she says. “You know how he is, so protective of the Echelon image, demanding loyalty? He insists on knowing everything about everyone here, especially if it could affect things negatively.”
“So you never mentioned anything to him? You never discussed it?”
“I told you it would stay between us. I gave you my word.”
Short of hooking Jacinda up to a polygraph, I can’t know for sure if she’s telling the truth, but I believe her. “So if you didn’t tell him and it wasn’t in my file, how did he know?”
“I don’t know, but no secret is safe around here with him,” she says. She mumbles something else.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I said that no secret is—”
“No, after that. You said something under your breath.”
“Just that it’s uncanny.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?” she asks.
It’s bizarre how the human brain works sometimes, how it can latch onto a part of a word and convert it into something else entirely in an instant.
The can.
“Do you remember where we were when we were first arguing about this? You came down to the valuations department and got me from Pierre’s office,” I say. “We were heading back to your office, right?”
“Yeah, but we never made it.”
“Exactly. And where did we end up?”
It’s dawning on Jacinda. The possibility. The very sick, creepy, and perverse possibility. “Wait, do you really think…” she asks.
“You said it yourself.It’s uncanny.”
CHAPTER72
I WALK AIMLESSLYaround the Upper East Side for half an hour or maybe an hour; I have no idea. I’m pondering everything, and yet I’m unable to focus. All I know is that I couldn’t get out of the Echelon building fast enough.
There’s nothing from my office that I really need, and while I definitely want to say goodbye to a few people, that can wait. For now, my phone is on silent, Do Not Disturb, and I’m just walking and thinking.
Suddenly, I’m stopping.
My cell, which isn’t supposed to ring, rings. That happens only if someone’s desperately trying to get through to me, calling multiple times.
It’s Miss D, the woman who runs Michelle’s foster home. Something’s wrong.
“Please tell me she’s with you,” says Miss D, panicked.
“With me? Why would Michelle be with me?” It’s the middle of the week, not Saturday.
“She was in her bed last night but not this morning. We think she ran away. In fact, we’re pretty sure of it.”
Now we’re both panicked. “How? Why?” I ask.
“There’s this new girl here at the house who’s caused some trouble,” Miss D explains. “She apparently told Michelle that her mother would be away a lot longer than six months.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Janet from Another Planet?”
