Chapter 2

Panic seized me. I scrambled to my feet and ran, my heavy security boots clumsy on the slick floor. I didn't look back. I just needed to get away, to put distance between myself and the monstrous truth I had just uncovered. I fumbled for my radio, my fingers shaking too badly to press the right button.

"Freeze!" a harsh voice yelled from behind me.

It wasn't David.

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs. Two men in black ski masks were standing by the main entrance. They had crowbars. They weren't with David and Emily; they were here to rob the place. My terrible night had just found a new, more terrifying dimension.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the taller man said, stepping toward me. "A little night watchman. Or watchwoman."

His partner chuckled, a low, ugly sound. "Give us your phone and the master keycard. Now."

Before I could react, a familiar, worried voice called my name. "Sarah? Honey, I brought you some soup. You must be freezing in here."

My mother.

She stood at the far end of the hall, holding a thermal flask. Her face, etched with concern, turned to confusion and then pure fear as she saw the masked men.

"Mom, no! Get out!" I screamed. "Call the police!"

But it was too late. The shorter thief lunged toward her. I moved without thinking, putting myself between him and my mother. "Don't you touch her!"

The taller thief grabbed me from behind, his arm locking around my throat. "You should have just stayed quiet," he snarled in my ear. He threw me to the ground. My head hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. Stars exploded behind my eyes.

"Sarah!" my mother shrieked.

She ran toward me, swinging the heavy flask at my attacker. He grunted in pain and shoved her violently. She was small and frail. The push sent her staggering backward. Her head hit the corner of a solid granite pedestal with a dull, awful thud. She crumpled to the floor and didn't move.

"Mom!" The word was a raw scream torn from my soul.

Pain and rage gave me a burst of strength. I scrambled up and lunged at the man who had hurt her, but his partner caught me, twisting my arm behind my back. He dragged me toward the front of the gallery, my feet scraping against the floor.

Through the massive plate-glass windows at the entrance, I saw a sleek, black car parked across the street. The interior light was on. For a split second, I saw two figures inside. A man and a woman. David and Emily. They were watching. They saw the masked men, they saw me being manhandled, they saw my mother lying motionless on the floor. And they did nothing. The car's light flicked off, and it slowly, deliberately, pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

He left me. He saw me in mortal danger and he just drove away. The last shred of hope that any part of him was a good man, the man I thought I married, died right there on the cold gallery floor.

The thief holding me laughed. "Looks like your friends are leaving you." He shoved my face against the glass. "See? Nobody's coming to save you."

His partner was now trying to pry a small painting from the wall. "This is taking too long," he grumbled. "Let's just grab what we can and go."

They dragged me to a back office, demanding I open the safe. When I told them I didn't have the code, the first thief backhanded me across the face. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. "Useless," he spat. They ransacked the room, grabbing a few petty cash boxes and a laptop, then they were gone, melting back into the darkness.

I lay on the floor, every part of my body screaming in pain. My head throbbed, my vision swam. But all I could think about was my mother. I crawled, inch by agonizing inch, back into the main hall. She was still there, a small, broken heap by the granite pedestal. A dark pool was spreading on the white marble beneath her head.

I reached her, my body shaking uncontrollably. "Mom? Mom, please, wake up." I touched her hand. It was already starting to feel cool. I pulled out my phone, my bloody fingers smudging the screen as I finally managed to dial 911. The world dissolved into a cacophony of sirens and flashing lights.

The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed. The harsh fluorescent lights burned my eyes. A nurse was checking my IV drip.

"You took a nasty blow to the head, Sarah," she said gently. "You need to rest."

Then I saw him. David was sitting in a chair by the window, his head in his hands. He looked up, his face a mask of anguish. It was a masterful performance.

"Sarah, oh my God," he said, rushing to my bedside. He tried to take my hand, his own hand trembling for effect. "I was so worried. I called and called, and when you didn't answer, I came to the gallery and saw the police... What happened? Are you okay?"

I stared at his face, at the fake tears welling in his eyes, at the carefully crafted expression of a loving, terrified husband. And I felt nothing. The man I loved was a ghost. The man in front of me was a monster.