There would be security working the event. I bit my lip, the pain focusing my mind. Well, there would be security at the entrances, but this museum wasn’t the Met. I wouldn’t need an Ocean’s 8 maneuver to get in. I just needed to get a look at the people there, make sure Aimee was still alive, scan for Lena. Call the police. I’d slipped the scissors from my purse into my pocket as backup, and now I clenched the cold steel, my only weapon.

As long as Lena knew I was here, she’d stay. Hopefully long enough to get caught.

The scissors pressed painfully into my hand. I wasn’t strong enough to fight Lena. I’d survive only if she didn’t see me.

The front steps of the museum were illuminated, although guests weren’t arriving yet. I darted into the shadows at the side of the building and went around back, where catering vans were parked by the loading dock. I recognized Tyler, the service captain standing with his clipboard, from countless other events, big, small, and esoteric. I’d seen him fire a cook on the spot for wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt. No way I was getting past him. But I couldn’t see another way in. There were three vans, all the standard white, with several people unloading plastic tubs, aluminum trays, and milk crates like a reverse game of Tetris. Inside the prep area, knives must be flying and proverbial plates must be spinning.

I wrapped both arms around my knotted stomach, trying to calm down enough to assess the situation. After all, I used to be the one coordinating these events with Aimee.

Together we had tasted rock shrimp on corn madeleines, lemon and rosemary macarons, flower petals and gold leaf suspended in champagne gelee. We’d designed menus and called donors and stretched our budget, calculating whether the expense would encourage donations and publicity. Aimee adored parties, not the food as much as the glamour and the attention. I was always on high alert, gauging our guests’ reactions, coordinating with Tyler or the service captain from whichever catering company was there. I knew exactly how many of the secret vegan options we had, and when some skinny socialite said, “Oh, that looks good; can I have that instead?” I was the one who added the cost of having her to my mental tally.

“But she’s part of the publicity,” Aimee had pointed out. “A vapid, selfish part of the publicity, but still …”

“It should be about the art. That should be what people care about.”

I had forgotten how it felt to be that certain, that idealistic. Now as I looked at the museum, I felt that it contained in brittle glass, fragile paper, and inflexible stone the fears and desires of a hundred human souls, each so easily destroyed.

Death was the opposite of art, and here I was, seeking it out.