Chevie looked around for anything that might justify her nagging suspicions about Tibor Charismo. She knew in her gut that something was wrong. Her instincts had served her well when she’d been undercover in Los Angeles.

I knew those guys were clean, and I just know that Tibor Charismo is dirty. I need to find the connection. There were only two men from the future hiding back here. One was Riley’s father, an FBI agent, and the other was the man he was guarding.

Charismo’s collection of half-masks was displayed on a board on the wall, each dangling from a dedicated brass hook.

This guy sure likes his masks, Chevie thought, tapping a mask that looked like solid gold but was actually painted plaster.

Nothing is as it seems.

Almost unconsciously, she began humming the intro of a song that her father had played over and over again on his beatup turntable: Eric Clapton, “Behind the Mask.”

Now this is real music, squirt, her dad said every single time he dropped the needle on the record.

Behind the mask. I wonder what is behind the mask.

There was a crack in the display board running right down the center. No, not a crack—a gap, because the board was actually a set of doors.

Where is the handle?

There was no handle, so Chevie put a finger against each door and pressed. The doors gave slightly and then swung open to reveal a recessed cupboard and bulletin board. There were line drawings pinned to the board and an assortment of objects placed on the shelf.

Calm down, she cautioned herself. And don’t miss a thing.

“Oh, my God,” she said aloud, surprised that her suspicions had proved to be spot on. “I’ve got you now, Tibor.”

What a fancy name he’s given himself, Chevie thought. Much fancier than Terry.

Suddenly she heard the rapid footfalls of a big person jogging up a nearby set of stairs.

I need proof for Riley.

Chevie snatched two small objects: a glittering ring from its velvet cushion, and the second to get her home again. She was back in the chimney before the masks stopped rocking on their hooks.

Inside the chimney, Chevie plotted her next move.

I need to get Riley alone and show him what I found. I hate to destroy his hero, but Charismo is not quite as gifted as he pretends to be.

She inched down the shaft toward the light below. The light. My room.

No one entered the chamber above. The footsteps she’d heard had been a false alarm. Still, it would be foolhardy to go back up. She should count herself lucky that she’d escaped detection this time.

Chevie imagined her Quantico instructor screaming abuse in her ear, and this motivated her to descend a little faster. In three minutes flat her boots were sticking out of the fireplace in her bedroom.