I pulled open the door and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Ryan on the other side of my gate, face twisted and leaning maliciously on the buzzer. Without letting go of it, he growled, “You said you wouldn’t call her, bitch.”

I shrank back in momentary fear before I gathered myself. I wasn’t afraid of some halfwit who smoked sage, for God’s sake. What could he really do to me while I was behind a locked iron gate, anyway? Annoy me to death?

“I never promised that,” I shot back. “Now get your filthy hand off my buzzer and get lost.”

Ryan lunged suddenly, rattling the bars of the gate like a gorilla at the zoo. I recoiled, heart thundering in my chest, and wondered whether I had miscalculated the potential for danger. How strong was that gate really? And what might he do once I was no longer behind it?

My mind flashed back to a night in college: me, screaming at some incredibly large, exceedingly drunk guy who had grabbed my ass while I waited at the bar, and Nick, holding me back and saying sharply in my ear, “Audrey, goddammit, someday you’re going to get yourself killed.”

I shivered.

Still clutching the bars, Ryan pressed his face against the gate so his bloodshot eyes and snarling mouth bulged like some nightmarish gargoyle. He barked once, then smacked chapped lips together in an exaggerated kiss and said, “Sweet dreams, Audrey.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE AUDREY

I scrutinized the image I was about to post—a close-up of Rosalind’s dreamy doll face as she gazed out the window of her Los Angeles apartment, her golden hair pinned up in miniature curlers—and then, satisfied, uploaded it to the museum’s Instagram feed. The opening of The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose was still a month away, but I had been stoking interest by sharing one carefully cropped image each week. The tactic was working—the posts got tons of engagement.

I knew people were genuinely excited about the art—as they should be!—but I personally thought the series was doing so well because of the images I had curated. Before I’d posted a single photo, I’d spent hours thinking about how to frame the exhibit. It didn’t lack for shock value—between the inspiration from a real murder and the rumor that Irina Venn had painted the scenes with actual human blood, there was plenty to scandalize the audience—but I’d chosen to focus on Rosalind’s humanity. When I looked at the dioramas, the doll herself was what grabbed me, the rawness of the emotions etched on her tiny face. Rosalind was the star of the show, and I wanted our followers to connect with her just as I had.

I was reviewing the first wave of comments when a notification popped up that I had a direct message from Irina Venn.

My heart skipped a beat. Why was the artist sending the museum—sending me—a direct message? Had I made a mistake in my last post? Quickly, I reviewed the photo and the spare caption (Meet Rosalind on August 28), but nothing was out of order. I took a deep breath and opened the message.