In the center of the gallery, a crowd had formed around the diorama where Rosalind first arrived in Los Angeles. It was one of the more hopeful scenes in the otherwise dark series: a tiny spotlight simulating the sun shone down on Rosalind, her red lips grinning and blonde ponytail high as she stood proudly beside a doll-sized U-Haul truck. In one of her tiny hands, she clutched a miniature tabloid, its headline—“Dead at 24!”—hinting at the horrors that would come. I paused my search for Cat and lingered on the crowd’s edge, eavesdropping—immaculate details, how about the use of lighting here?, God I hate knowing how this ends—and searching for the best candidate for a quick Live. My eyes had just settled on Lena, who was engaged in a deep conversation with a pastel-haired woman dressed completely in white, when I felt the sensation of being watched.

I whirled around, expecting to find Lawrence staring at me from across the room. Instead, I saw only a sea of unfamiliar faces, none of which were looking in my direction. I scanned them anyway, paranoia growing as I searched for someone, anyone, who might have been paying me undue attention. I froze as I caught a glimpse of a bulky figure wearing an incongruous baseball cap. That creep always lurking around the halls. Still riled up from my encounter with Lawrence and spoiling for a fight, I curled my hands into fists and started toward him. I was going to tell that loser to leave me the hell alone once and for all. I was not going to let another stupid man intimidate me at my workplace.

“Hey,” I said, my voice crackling with anger as I tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

He turned around, licking his lips when he saw me. “Hello there.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

He adjusted the brim of his cap and cocked his head at me. “Checking out the exhibit. You know I’ve been interested in this one.”

A memory of the shock I felt when I saw him in the gallery on that first day flashed through my mind, and I tightened my fist. “I seem to remember you helping yourself to an early glimpse. Now, as this preview is exclusively for donors and members, you’ll need to leave.”

He laughed slightly. “I’m not leaving.”

Furious, I jabbed a finger at him—the second man to ignore my request to leave me the hell alone in the last thirty minutes—and snapped, “Listen, I don’t know who you are, how you got in here, or what it is that you want, but I am sick and tired of you showing up and ogling me when I’m just trying to do my goddamn job.”

A large, vaguely familiar-looking man with a ruddy complexion lumbered up to the creep’s side and placed one of his hefty hands on his shoulder. Glowering at me from underneath bushy gray eyebrows, he asked, “Is there a problem here?”

Suddenly, I recognized him as Senator Adrian Potts, whom Ayala always praised as a generous patron of the arts. Shit. Upsetting Senator Potts was a serious enough offense to cost me that promotion, no matter how many special videos Irina Venn created for us.