Page 26 of Dying to Meet You
After flipping on the desk lamp, I take a seat in my ergonomic chair. I drop my computer bag into my lap and unzip it, feeling like I’mperforming a pantomime of my former life. This is how the workday is supposed to begin. The motions are correct.
The problem is that I’ve forgotten how to be this person, and after I open the laptop, I stare at the login screen for a moment, until the desk lamp suddenly flickers. My gaze jumps to the green glass shade, just as it steadies again.
The last time the lights flickered, one of the conservators made a comment about ghosts, and I’d found it charming.
I don’t anymore.
***
A couple of hours later, I’m up in the Blue Room, measuring the paintings I’d discussed with Hank just days before. I still can’t seem to focus, and it takes me three tries before I successfully write down the proportions in my notebook.
Rationally, I know that whoever killed Tim isn’t coming for me next, but I don’t feel safe here, even in the daylight. I’ve already checked the FriendFinder app several times today, just to see Natalie’s icon securely at school. As if knowing her whereabouts would keep her safe.
Tim’s avatar is gone, of course, and I wonder absurdly if he might still be alive if I hadn’t unfollowed him.
Leaving the room, I wander out onto the second-floor gallery. The conservators are working in the next room, and I give the door a knock. Nobody answers, and after another tap, I push the door open.
Zoya and Bert are standing on separate scaffolds, both of them dabbing the walls with cotton balls. And both are wearing headphones.
Bert jerks when he sees me, and Zoya picks up on the motion and whirls, whipping off her headphones.
“Sorry, guys,” I say, my voice rusty from disuse. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Zoya puts a hand to her chest. “Not your fault. We’re just jumpy.”
I don’t have to ask why. We’re all jumpy. Beatrice spent her morning ordering new security cameras that will cover every exterior inch of the property. That’s in addition to the new keypads on the doors.
“I have a very aggravating question for you two. Don’t”—I almost say “shoot the messenger” before I realize the callousness of that cliché—“be too annoyed.”
“Well, let’s hear it,” Bert says. “Do I need to climb down for this?”
I shake my head. “Regarding the murals in the Blue Room, would it be possible, in your opinion, to move a panel?”
His gaze sharpens. “Why the hell would you want to?”
“I don’t,” I admit. “But I may need to consider it. If the door to the room could be closer to the corner, it would save my floor plan.”
“Do I have this right?” Zoya asks. “You want to move a hundred-fifty-year-old mural to make your floor plan a little sleeker?”
“Easy,” Bert says. “I’m sure Rowan would prefer to leave the walls where they are.” He removes his cap and gives his graying head a shake. “You could make it work. We’d use a very fine saw to remove that panel and relocate it. Then we’d essentially caulk it back into place in its new home. There’d be some risk to the artwork. The plaster could crumble. But it probably won’t.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll view it as a last resort.”
“Theverylast,” Zoya growls. “The artist arranged those scenes the way he wanted them.”
“Understood.”
I walk toward the door. “Should I close this after myself?”
“No, wait.” Zoya hops down off the platform. “There’s something I need to show you in the smaller sitting room.”
My stomach drops. “Please don’t tell me there’s another mural in there.” Another delay might get me fired.
“Not exactly,” she says. “Just look.”
I follow her next door to a small room facing the back of the house. It was originally the ladies’ sitting room—somewhere the women could gather while the men were smoking or playing billiards. The wallpaper we’d removed from this room wasn’t in good condition, and there was nothing interesting beneath it.
Or so I believed.
