War is a bloody thing, Lainey. I hope you’re prepared.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lainey

Though last night was unbearable, I refuse to let Emmett continue to wreak havoc on my life. I want some semblance of normalcy, so I decide to push my flight back to Boston until later Sunday evening. There’s a Jeff Koons retrospective at the Whitney, put together by Scott Rothkopf, a curator I greatly admire. I’ve been wanting to view the show, and now seems as good a time as any.

Before I head out into the city, I slip into a tan cashmere dress that coordinates with a duster of the same material. An Hermès belt cinches my waist and pulls the whole look together. I wonder if I can make it to the Guggenheim today as well. I’ve seen their permanent collection a hundred times, but I can never resist the temptation to view Picasso’s Woman with Yellow Hair. The painting depicts Marie-Thérèse, one of Picasso’s lovers. When they met, Picasso was already married and Marie-Thérèse was only seventeen years old. They concealed their intense love affair, but its earliest years are documented in Picasso’s work. In fact, five paintings from 1927 incorporate the monogram “MT” and “MTP” as part of their compositions, cryptically announcing the entry of Marie-Thérèse into the artist’s life.

The piece is wonderful, and the story behind his muse is so complicated and gritty. It’s easy for people to stand in front of a painting and think the colors are blended well and the subject matter is satisfying, but I want the behind-the-scenes stories, the why of it all.

Spending my day in front of art sounds like a perfect distraction. I’m proud of myself for going through the motions even though deep down, I’m a mess.

I’m about to grab my purse and head out into the city when a heavy fist knocks on the door.

I frown, trying to remember if I called down to room service for anything. They’ve already come to remove my breakfast tray. It could be housekeeping wanting to check in on me, but when I peer through the peephole on the door, I spot an older man in a three-piece suit flanked by armed guards on either side.

My eyes widen in alarm as I step back from the door quickly.

Then they knock again.

“Ms. Davenport. Might we have a moment of your time before you depart the hotel?”

My first instinct is to lock the door, but then I press up against the peephole again and see the Leclerc & Co. emblem on his suit jacket pocket and the metal briefcase he cradles against his chest as if he’s protecting a newborn baby.

Foolish though it might be, I crack the door open to peer out at them.

The distinguished man in the suit beams.

“Ah! Madam, please pardon the intrusion. I know this is rather unusual…” He waggles the suitcase to emphasize the absurdity of the situation. “I am Eugene Brooks, one of the creative directors at Leclerc & Co. jewelers. Surely, you’ve—”