Now That I've Found You - Kristina Forest Page 0,32

straight to Candice Tevin and ask her about Gigi.

“What would you say if you were me?” Milo asks.

“What?” I say. Are we still talking about lying? “Fine. You’re Michael Barclay and I’m Karolina Ainsley. We’re art collectors with a gallery adjoining my mansion on Long Island. The name of our gallery is Ainsley Barclay. Easy to remember, right? We particularly like to collect celebrity-themed art: statues, oil paintings, etc., and we’re ecstatic that we might be able to purchase one of Candice Tevin’s famous photographs. See? Easy.”

We’re inching closer to the entrance, and I watch as ticket takers stand at the door. We don’t have tickets, but that’s okay; I have a plan.

“Do I need an accent or something?” Milo asks, breaking my train of thought. “Michael Barclay sounds French.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” He pulls on his collar again, casting a nervous glance at his surroundings. “Are you sure about this? I think—”

I firmly plant my hands on his shoulders. “Yes, I’m sure about this. Listen to me, Milo. You cannot blow this for me, okay? I need to find Gigi, and I could use your help to do that, but if you think you won’t be helpful, then you should go home right now and get ready for your show.”

He stares wide-eyed, then shakes me away. “I’ve got this,” he says, nodding confidently. “Just tell me if I need an accent or not.”

“No,” I sigh. “You don’t need an accent. Better yet, you don’t need to speak at all. I’ll do all the talking, okay?”

It looks as if the time to do the talking has arrived, because we’re at the front of the line.

“Good evening,” a polite girl with blue hair says to me. “Tickets, please.”

Milo makes a face as if he just swallowed a jawbreaker.

I lower my sunglasses just a teensy bit and flash a bright smile. “Yes, I have them, give me one second.” I start sifting through my clutch. “Oh no. They were just here. I just had them. Didn’t I, Michael, darling?”

Milo blinks at me as if I just spoke to him in another language.

I continue searching and hear some grumbles from the people behind me. The blue-haired girl raises an eyebrow. I drop into a crouch and pour everything out of my clutch and onto the ground.

“They’re not here!” I cry. “And we spent so much money on these tickets!” I wipe at my eyes, careful not to smear my makeup. “Oh, this is just a nightmare! I promised Great-Aunt Belinda that I’d buy that framed photograph of Sidney Poitier for her! She’s in the hospital, dying, and I won’t be able to keep my promise!” I throw my clutch aside and burst into tears.

“Wow, um, okay, wow,” Milo says under his breath. He drops down and scoops my clutch off the ground. He inches closer and rubs my back. “Evie, hey, maybe—ouch! Why’d you pinch me?”

“Miss, it’s okay.” The blue-haired girl steps forward and helps me up. “Just go inside, all right?”

I clasp her hands in mine. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me.”

She smiles and waves us on. Once we step through the doors, I check my makeup again and pat my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I turn to Milo.

“Okay, how do I look?” I ask.

He stares at me. After a few blinks, he says, “Wow. That was … You’re good.”

I smile. “Thank you.” At McKibben, my teachers loved that I could always cry on command during scene work. We were taught to think about the saddest moments in our lives and channel that grief. Conveniently, just now, I didn’t have to think that far back.

Everyone stands in the large lobby, and servers maneuver through the thick crowd, holding drink trays. Signs hang from the ceiling that say THE CANDICE TEVIN FOUNDATION. I immediately scan the lobby for Gigi, even though I know she won’t be out mingling with everyone else. If she’s here, she’ll be in a back room somewhere, and the only person who can lead me to her is Candice Tevin.

I loop my arm through Milo’s and begin pushing through the crowd.

“Keep an eye out for Candice,” I say to him.

“Wait, what does she look like?”

Before I can throw up my hands and call him useless, Candice Tevin herself walks onto the platform and welcomes everyone. She looks the same as I remember from my eleventh birthday, except now her long dreadlocks are gray. She wears