The fair girl tossed her napkin onto her near-empty plate and stood. Leaning down, she kissed Violet on the lips and then left. Nat was mildly surprised by the incongruous pairing. Violet was miles out of her blond girlfriend’s league; she just didn’t know it. Violet was tall and beautiful and radiant. Of course, she was. She was Gabe’s daughter.

When Violet signaled for the bill, Nat signaled for her own. As the younger girl paid, Nat dug some bills out of her wallet. Tossing them on the table, she followed Gabe’s offspring out of the restaurant.

34

The Met

Nat followed Violet Turnmill at a discreet distance for several blocks. The girl was headed uptown, her stride casual but purposeful. Nat wondered if Violet was meeting her father. Her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Gabe. And at the thought of him seeing her. He would be angry, protective of his daughter. He’d think Nat was obsessed, unhinged, a stalker. She should turn around right now, go back to her apartment. But she couldn’t. Violet Turnmill was pulling her along in her force field.

When Violet turned right on Fifth Avenue and crossed toward the park, her destination became evident. The Met. Nat loved the Met, had visited numerous times. Thanks to its donation policy for New York residents, she had been a regular attendee even when she was broke. Experience informed her that she could easily lose Violet inside the massive building, the multitude of exhibits, the sea of weekend visitors. The pretty girl was ascending the steps now, moving toward the doors. Nat scurried up after her.

Violet moved directly to the express entry for members and patrons. Of course she had a membership; the Turnmills were wealthy, cultured, sophisticated. As Nat waited in the short residents’ line, she kept her eyes trained on Violet’s dark hair. She could not lose her now.

Inside the gallery, it took Nat a moment to locate her mark. Gabe’s daughter was moving through the main hallway, headed for the stairwell. She seemed to have a destination in mind, wasn’t distracted by any of the other exhibits. Nat trailed behind her until Violet reached the second floor and took a left, entering the impressionists gallery. The pretty girl passed by the paintings on the walls—the Manets, the Monets, the Pissarros—without a glance. Finally, she stopped in front of a sculpture in bronze.

It was The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer by Edgar Degas. Nat knew it well. She had studied it at school, visited it often. It was a personal favorite—this simple girl, a street urchin turned ballerina—immortalized by a great man. With a deep breath, Nat moved closer, stopping just a couple of feet from Gabe’s daughter. Nat’s eyes were fixed on the almost life-size sculpture, but all her attention was focused on the beautiful dark-haired girl beside her.

They were close enough that Nat feared Violet would hear her pounding heart, would sense her taut, nervous energy. But Gabe’s only child was enraptured by the statue before her and didn’t even notice Nat. She had to say something, to connect with Violet in some way. It was a need, a compulsion. Keeping her voice calm and steady, Nat spoke.