Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“It’s not paranoia to be careful,” I say.
She ignores me, turning to the window. I adjust the seat belt so it’s not cutting into my neck.
Fuck it, maybe I am being paranoid.
We’ve taken one too many hits and I’m not seeing things objectively anymore. Because hell, nothing is objective when it comes to Cleo Blackthorn.
I’ve stopped counting the seconds by the time we turn down the street to the museum and I see the museum’s Grecian-style columns out front. Leonidas would’ve loved this place.
Logically, it would be insanely bold for Fairfax to try anything weird in public in a building rigged with cameras and a direct line to the local police precinct.
This place has both. I verified it with their security team before we set out.
So maybe Fairfax is just coming here to see it off and plead his case one more time.
Annoying, yet hardly the end of the world.
After all, if he wanted to take it by force, surely he wouldn’t implicate himself in their dirty work. Given the history behind the Hera Egg, it’s going to be a big moment, so maybe it’s just some goofy academic professional honor thing I’ll never understand.
I just can’t get his frustration out of my head. He wanted the egg, and he lost. He lowballed her, and she turned him down.
This feels like a bad fucking idea, and I can’t believe I’m letting Cleo walk into it.
“Go around the back. We’re meeting there,” I tell the driver, my knuckles white against my knees. That dull ache has started up and I’m not even straining.
“Right-o,” he mutters.
Cleo grips the briefcase between us, ready to dive out the instant we roll to a stop.
“Clee, it’s not too late,” I say softly. “We could reschedule for later today, even. I could call them and tell them you’ll meet Fairfax separately, after it’s handed off.”
“No.” Her nostrils flare as she inhales sharply.
“But—”
“Holden, will you—just respect my fucking decisions for once.” Daggers. Her eyes are full of them, pointed and gleaming. “It shouldn’t be this hard, dude.”
I’m about to break my teeth, clenched together like a vise as we finally reach the back entrance. Cleo opens the door the second the car stops and throws herself out, clutching the bag to her chest.
I sit there for a few strained seconds until the driver clears his throat. Then I’m moving.
At least there are cameras. I notice them behind black half globes bolted to the ceiling.
By my guess, they’re covering the whole service entrance, which looks secure.
Cleo presses the intercom next to the door. “Hi, Cleo Blackthorn here for a meeting with Mr. Talbot.”
“Yes, one moment,” a voice says back.
There’s a loud click as the tall door unlocks. She doesn’t look back as she walks inside and I hurry in after her.
“Clee,” I say, catching up and grabbing her arm.
She shakes me off. “How many times do I need to say it, Holden? I know what I’m doing. We’re all here in one piece. Thanks.”
I never thought that word could hold so much acid.
We’re both exhausted.
It’s been a long day, a long season.
“I did this for you. To help you. Everything.”
For a split second, her anger fades into sadness.
“I said thanks, didn’t I?” She sighs. “Look, I’ve had enough of other people deciding what should happen. I’m good now. You don’t have to wait up for me, unless you really want to.”
“I will,” I mutter.
Reluctantly, I step back.
She brushes past me again, and this time I don’t stop her.
Fuck.
My chest itches. I scratch it like I can wipe away the burning scars she’s left behind.
Another door off to the side opens as she reaches for it, and a nervous-looking man with thin dark hair above his upper lip greets us.
“Thrilled you could make it, Miss Blackthorn,” he says with a polite nod for me.
I recognize him from my research. Eric Talbot might look unassuming, but his résumé is exemplary. He’s overseen plenty of precious objects coming through this museum without ever having a serious crime happen on his watch.
That should be reassuring, yet I’m still twitchier than a live wire.
Predictably, that bite in my knees deepens, and I ignore it.
“Mr. Talbot, it’s a pleasure.” Cleo shakes his hand. The briefcase hangs in her other hand now, and I keep my eye on it as I glance behind at the street through the glass.
Nothing looks out of place here, inside or out.
Maybe I really am too worried, keyed up by mistakes with Cleo instead.
“Please come to my office,” the curator says warmly. Over his shoulder, I get a glimpse of marble hallways with regal red carpet, people milling around behind velvet ropes, the area where the public museum exhibits start. “Is it in there?”
Talbot’s eyes stop on the briefcase.
“It is,” Cleo says.
“Marvelous.” He speaks like he’s right out of some Dickens play. “It’s so thrilling to have something so precious. I’m delighted you’ve given us the opportunity to display it.”