Page 124 of Gave Proof Through the Night

25

ERICA

Chapter playlist:

Don't Blame Me — Taylor Swift

$160 Million Chinese Man — David Holmes

Why does this feel like getting stabbed with my own knife?

I watch Jeremiah cross the courtyard, tux jacket over one shoulder, until he’s no longer lit by the string lights and the dark of the hallway swallows him whole.

Every part of me wants to run after him. Grab his sleeve. Tell him I was kidding, that none of it is true, that I’m a raging lunatic with a flair for the dramatic and nothing more.

I don’t, and now my heart feels like a deflated balloon.

I give myself a few minutes to gather the courage it takes not to do something rash, then I find the garden entrance that lets guests slip straight out to the street without passing the lobby. I duck through before anyone official can ask why a woman in a ball gown is leaving alone. I hike my skirt to my knees and start walking. In this dress. In these boots.

I make it to the end of the block before a man with salt and pepper hair plants himself at the crosswalk like he’s been waiting there just for me.

I jump back, startled, wondering if I’d need to put these combat boots to use.

“Erica Armitage,” he says. “We need to talk.”

My stomach plummets through the sidewalk. A cop? Museum security? Somebody from the hotel who’s onto me? I run through every option in a half second and none of them end anywhere good. I picture the jumpsuit. I have never once looked good in the color orange.

“Who the blazes are you?”

“Someone whose interests are temporarily aligned with yours.” He holds a card out between two fingers. “Call me.”

Then he presses it into my palm and closes my fingers around it like some kind of magician.

The light changes and he’s gone before I can ask any questions.

I look down. The card is heavy stock with embossed letters.

HEATH KANE

Perfect. Exactly what tonight needed. A new guy I have to deal with.

I tuck it into the top of my boot and keep walking. Whatever this is, it can wait until I’ve met with the rest of the crew.

By the time I let myself into the loft, everyone is in various stages of packing up.

Suri already has the loupe in her eye, hunched over the velvet case on the worktable.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, before I’ve even had a chance to change out of my dress.

I lean over her shoulder. To me, it looks perfect. But I’m not the expert here.

Suri turns it under the lamp, frowning. “The weight’s wrong.” She hefts it in her palm like she’s weighing a peach. “And look at this clasp. The forger got maybe eighty percent of the way and just ran out of patience.”

She looks up at me.

“Whoever did this didn't try very hard,” she says. “Part of it is 3-D printed, for Pete's sake.”

Blood rushes to my head. “You mean it’s a FAKE? We just swapped a fake for another… crappier fake?”