But to get that promotion I would have to knock the social media campaign for the Irina Venn exhibit out of the park. I was so excited to get started that, after spending the morning on paperwork and training, I decided to work through lunch. Grabbing my phone and animal crackers for sustenance, I returned to the closed gallery.

The glass cases stretched before me in the darkened room, the fatal story line they contained both intriguing and repulsing me. I approached one diorama at random and peered inside: there was Rosalind, her blonde hair pinned up in tiny curlers, reading a miniature script on a small, threadbare couch, a little can of Diet Coke on the shabby coffee table in front of her. My stomach twisted slightly. Rosalind wasn’t real, but knowing she was based on a real woman made me feel like a voyeur to tragedy.

I shook off my uneasiness, popped a couple of animal crackers in my mouth, and began snapping pictures on my phone. As I captured Rosalind’s tiny face, a dreamy smile that was totally innocent of the horrors yet to come, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.

Stop letting this get to you, I chastised myself. This is just art.

I moved to another diorama, looked into the room, and shrieked.

A pair of flat, dark eyes were staring at me through the glass.

I stumbled backward in surprise, and the owner of the eyes straightened, revealing himself to be a blocky man in his early twenties, his black clothing blending into the dark and his face shadowed by a baseball cap.

“What are you doing in here?” I demanded, affecting my best authoritative voice as I placed a hand over my heart in an effort to control its panicked rhythm. “This gallery is closed.”

He cocked his head at me. “Do you know who I am?”

I faltered, suddenly unsure whether he was a fellow museum employee.

He smiled at my unease and took a step toward me. “Which scene’s your favorite?”

The predatory look in his hooded eyes sent shivers down my spine, and I was suddenly certain that this man was no colleague of mine.

“You need to leave,” I said firmly. “Now, before I call security.”

“Relax,” he said, holding up meaty palms in mock surrender. “I’m going.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and sternly watched as he ambled to the exit. Before he passed through the screens, he paused and looked over his shoulder. A slow smile spread across his face and he said, “I like the one where the guy’s outside the girl’s window with a hatchet.”

I stretched my lips into a tight smile to conceal my fear. “Enjoy the rest of your visit.”

He smirked and waved. “Later.”

Heart jackhammering inside my chest, I followed him out and stared hard at his back, not looking away until he disappeared down the escalator and out of view.

I READILY ACCEPTED an invitation to grab a drink with my new colleague Lawrence. He’d amused me with his collection of dad jokes, and, besides, Cat had canceled on me and I was in no hurry to return to my lonely apartment. But just as Lawrence and I were heading out, someone called him back to address something.