As Hale closed the door behind him, Kat heard Angus say, “Ooh, Mom and Dad are going to fight now.”
Outside, the air was cool. She wished she’d brought a coat, that Hale would put his arm around her and tease her for bringing home strays and lost causes. But his tone was anything but warm. “You’re too close to this one, Kat. You’re way too involved to think—”
“I know,” she practically yelled. “I am close. This is my life, Hale. Mine. My father. My job. My responsibility.”
“Clearly.” He sounded so calm and detached. Everything she wasn’t.
“I know what I’m doing, Hale.”
“Really? Because I could swear that in the past twenty-four hours you’ve turned your father in—”
“Five minutes ago you thought that was a great idea,” she reminded him. He pushed on.
“—to the cops, and brought home a stranger.”
“Nick’s good, Hale. He picked me clean and I never saw it coming.”
Hale shook his head. “This is a bad call, Kat. If Uncle Eddie were here—”
“Uncle Eddie’s not here,” she snapped. “Uncle Eddie isn’t going to be here.” Her voice cracked, but Hale either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
“Uncle Eddie would stop you.”
Kat looked at him, read the cool indifference in his eyes. “So that’s what you’re going to do?” she asked. “Stop me?”
She wanted him to say, “Of course not,” but instead, he looked her right in the eye and said, “Maybe I should.” He stepped closer. “This guy is—”
“What, Hale?” Kat shouted, louder now. “What is he exactly?”
“He’s not part of the family.”
“Yeah, well—” Kat sighed. “Neither are you.”
Katarina Bishop was a criminal. But she’d never held a gun. She’d never thrown a punch. Until that moment she didn’t really know how it felt to hurt someone, and as soon as she saw the look on Hale’s face, she wanted to take the words back.
And she wished she could make them hurt more.
Both. So she went inside, unable to do either.
Chapter 24
Gregory Reginald Wainwright was still relatively new to the Henley. Oh, nine months had been more than enough time for his personal effects to find their way out of boxes and onto shelves. In that time, he’d managed to learn the names of almost all of the guards and docents who worked between the hours of ten and six. But the honeymoon period, as they say, was almost over for the Henley’s new director. It would not be long until the board of directors started asking to see his quarterly reports, questioning him about donation levels, budget overages, and, of course, about the man named Visily Romani.
These were the worries that filled his mind, pulling his concentration away from his newspaper that Friday morning. Perhaps that was why he didn’t mind the distraction when the intercom on his desk began to buzz.
“Mr. Wainwright,” his assistant said, “there’s a young man here who would like a few moments of your time.”
He groaned. The Henley was always filled with young men. Young women, too. Which was nothing more than a polite way of saying children. They spilled soft drinks in the café and left fingerprints on the glass in the atrium. They filled his museum by the busload every day of the school year, crowding the exhibits, talking too loudly, and driving the Henley’s director to the sanctuary of his office with his tea and his paper.
“Mr. Wainwright?” The assistant’s voice seemed more urgent now. “Shall I show the young man in? He doesn’t have an appointment, but he was hoping you might take a moment for him.”
Gregory Wainwright was searching for an answer—an excuse—but before he could claim to be expecting an urgent visitor or about to make an important call, his secretary added, “His name is W. W. Hale the Fifth.”
“Is he good?” Nick’s breath was warm against Kat’s ear. They were standing too close, she thought, as they looked through the halls of the Henley toward an unmarked door where two corridors came to a T-shaped intersection. Someone will notice, Kat worried. Someone might think something. And still he stood behind her, watching, as the door to the director’s private office opened, and a slightly balding, slightly paunchy, slightly awkward man emerged with a boy who was his opposite in almost every way.
Kat watched Hale make a show of holding the door open for the older man to walk through. She doubted that anyone but a seasoned professional would notice the small piece of tape he’d left on the latch, the quick glance he’d sent in her direction.
And then she exhaled and said, “Yeah. He’s good.” But what she thought was, He’s still angry.