My nap was not to be.

Once again, Whitney blitzed me as I stepped into the house.

She had a plan. In fact, she was already squeezed into a skintight cocktail dress.

“It’s going to be wonderful!” she gushed. “I’ve already spoken to your father, and he’ll be home in thirty minutes. Go get ready!”

“You talked to Kit?” I asked cautiously. “Just now?”

“Yes, sugar. He agreed that our family desperately needs an evening on the town together. And this opening is at the Gibbes!”

I questioned the accuracy of Whitney’s reporting, but didn’t press the issue. Kit must’ve agreed to her proposal. Which meant I’d gotten a reprieve.

Reprieve? I’m going to a freaking art show with Whitney and Angry Kit. No es bueno.

A thought occurred to me. Why not?

“Is it okay if I invite someone to join us?”

Whitney’s mouth thinned. “Tory, dear, I don’t think any of those boys would enjoy—”

“I don’t mean the guys. I was thinking of my friend Ella. From school. She’s joining the Mag League, too.”

Whitney’s eyes widened. Then her face exploded with joy.

“Of course you may, sweetie. In fact, you simply must!”

• • •

Kit arrived home as I was dabbing on blush. My pulse spiked as he trooped upstairs.

Knock knock.

“Yes?”

Kit stuck his head in my room. “Art show.”

I nodded. “Ella’s coming. We play soccer together.”

Kit’s brow furrowed, but he shook it off. “Downstairs in ten. Tonight seems important to Whitney, so we’ll talk about this afternoon another time.”

He withdrew and closed the door.

“Wonderful.”

So Kit was keeping my LIRI excursion from Whitney.

And Whitney wasn’t telling Kit about my sneak-out the night before.

Blargh.

What a mess. Things were getting complicated. I felt a noose tightening around my neck.

Abruptly, I wondered what secrets they were keeping from me?

My mind arrowed back to Whitney’s casual statement a half hour ago.

That our family needed a night out. I shivered at the implications.

She was moving out again, right? As soon as her house was fixed?

Kit’s voice boomed up the stairwell. “Tory! Chop chop!”

I checked myself in the mirror. Black dress, strapless. Tasteful flats. Hair up. Light makeup. Was this how you dressed for an art show? I hadn’t the faintest, and using Whitney as a template could result in disaster. If there was a line, she usually pushed it.

“Come on, honey!” I could hear the bounce in Whitney’s voice.

With one last primp, I headed downstairs.

• • •

Ella met us on the front steps of the Gibbes Museum of Art.

She wore a hunter-green Christian Dior number that set off her eyes, and made her stand out from the black-clad crowd. But in a good way, like a centerpiece.

I felt gangly and awkward—a little girl playing dress-up—but Ella seemed totally at ease. Which helped me relax.

Ella aced introductions, charming Kit and positively delighting Whitney. When it came to schmooze, she was light-years ahead of me. Whitney nearly teared up, so happy to see me with a friend from the “approved” list. And a girl to boot.

The Gibbes Museum is a domed, white-columned monolith on Meeting Street, tucked away in the heart of Charleston’s historic district. Designed in a Beaux Arts style that was popular at the beginning of the twentieth century, the gallery first opened in 1905, and has been a fixture of the art world ever since.

The evening’s festivities were in the Alice Smith Gallery, the largest room on the museum’s first floor. A local sculptor had rented the space to display, and hopefully sell, his recent works.

Perhaps a hundred guests mingled among the dozen or so sculptures arrayed around the chamber. Tuxedoed waitstaff circled the room, silver trays balanced on white-gloved hands, offering an array of hors d’oeuvres. A string quartet played in one corner, beside a cash bar that was getting a lot of attention.

Ella elbowed my side. “Check out that guy.”

I followed her sightline to a man in the center of the room. He wore black skinny jeans and a ribbed white turtleneck.

And a beret. A raspberry beret.

“Oh my,” I whispered.

“If he’s not being ironic, I’ll pee myself.”

I snorted, then we both broke out in giggles. I was so thankful she’d agreed to come.

Thankfully, Whitney missed the exchange.

“Jean-Paul!” she squealed, waving for the man’s attention. “Everything looks lovely!”

Jean-Paul smiled smugly, every inch the stereotype of a self-important artist. He crossed to our group. “Welcome. So glad you could attend my moment.”

Introductions were made. I could sense Kit struggling for something to talk about.

Time to make my exit.

“We’re gonna do a lap,” I said quickly. “Bye.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ella said, once we’d scurried away from Kit, Whit, and The Moment. “Look at all these pretentious blowhards, sipping champagne and munching duck tartar. They’ll all pretend to know about art, but none actually do. This is going to be great!”

We worked our way around the room, scarfing the various offerings and critiquing both artwork and aficionados. Several of the pieces simply made no sense.

“What’s this one called?” Ella asked, chomping a crab cake.

I read the placard. “Man’s Inhumanity to Man.”

Ella smirked. “It’s a half-inflated balloon.”

“Attached to a six-foot fire hydrant,” I pointed out. “Painted gold.”

“I see. He shouldn’t let this go for less than five billion.”

“Cash.”

My giggle cut off with a jolt. Ice traveled my spine.

The sensation had returned, stronger than ever. For a fleeting moment, I felt a web of loose connections spin away from my mind, casting about as searching for a light switch. Then just as quickly, the feeling passed.

“Tory?” Ella eyed me with concern. “You’ve gone pale. See a ghost?”

“It’s nothing.” I seized a glass of water from a nearby buffet table. Downed it in one go. “Thirsty,” I wheezed when finished.

“Well, it is important to hydrate,” Ella said wryly. “Come on. This one looks like a inflatable pitchfork.”

I nodded, gathering myself. A quick mental probe confirmed the sensation was gone.

So frustrating.

Pushing the disturbance aside, I followed on Ella’s heels.

We were circling toward the next piece when I saw him. “Oh, crap.”

“Way worse than that,” Ella said. “Jean-Paul isn’t going to make his deposit back.”

“No.” I pointed behind my palm. “Headmaster Paugh. Naturally, he’s here.”

Paugh wore a tweed jacket and brown pants, and looked like a college professor who’d stumbled into the building. He spotted us before we could turn away.

“Miss Brennan,” he said, cutting through the crowd. “And Miss Francis. I didn’t know you were fans of Mr. Delacourt’s work.”

“This is my first time. It’s all very . . . nice.”

“Modernist garbage,” Paugh scoffed. “He’d be lucky to sell that silly hat he’s wearing. But I believe in supporting our local arts community, even when they foolishly abandon the classical forms.”

Paugh nodded to a sculpture on his right. “I mean, this thing. What is it? A giant rake? A TV antenna? My grandson made something similar in his preschool class.”

“I, uh . . . yes.” The best reply I could formulate.

“Well, enjoy.” Paugh swept on, pausing to shake his head at the next exhibit.

“I can’t believe that!” Ella whispered. “He usually just glowers.”

“I know, right?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Does our headmaster secretly have a sense of humor?”

I spotted more familiar faces ahead. Nell Harris was clutching a wine flute, chatting with Lazarus Parrish. The defense attorney saw me first.

“Tory Brennan!” His gravelly voice carried across the gallery.

I had no choice but to join them. Ella followed.

“Congratulations on your testimony the other day.” Parrish extended a hand, which I reluctantly shook. “You were an excellent witness. The district attorney had you well prepared.”

Harris dipped her glass in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, sir.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to take the compliment. This man was the enemy.

“I’m not your enemy, Tory.” Parrish read my mind. “The Gamemaster was my client—and it was my duty to defend him to the utmost—but I won’t be losing sleep over his conviction. His last check failed to clear.”

Harris chuckled, blue eyes rolling. “You don’t change, do you, Lazarus?”

“God, I hope not. Who is your lovely friend?”

I introduced Ella, but the conversation faltered. After a few banal pleasantries we excused ourselves and moved along.

“Remind me not to go to law school,” Ella whispered.

“Let’s make that a blood oath.”

We’d completed a circuit. I searched for Kit, saw him trapped in a corner with Whitney, Delacourt, and a half-dozen ruffled hipsters. I wished him luck, but no chance was I approaching that nightmare.

Then I felt Ella stiffen at my side. “Tor!”

I turned. Chance Claybourne was weaving toward us.

Is everyone in Charleston at this stupid gala?

“Ack.” My eyes darted. “Nowhere to hide.”

“For you, maybe.” Ella backed away with a wink. “Get him to take you home!”

“Traitor!” I hissed, but she’d already melted into the crowd.

Chance wore his now-customary black suit. I was growing used to seeing him dressed like a playboy rather than a Bolton student. No sane girl would complain.

Stop it. He’s dangerous to you.

Chance finally wound a path to my side. “Can’t say I expected to see you here.”

“Likewise.” Playing it cool. “Does Claybourne Manor need more artwork?”

“Always. But this stuff is nonsense. I just bought the one that looks like a plastic hubcap. That twit Jean-Paul is a friend of my cousin.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Nice. Picked out a spot?”

“Bathroom. Gardener’s shed.”

Needing a distraction, I snagged an appetizer off a passing tray and stuck it in my mouth. Salmon mousse. Gross. I tried not to make a face.

“Should I expect you at these events now?” Chance asked. “I thought you and the others were in hiding on that island.”

His tone put me on edge. Chance was watching me closely. There was a tightness to his jaw, and around his eyes. It could’ve been a trick of the lighting, but Chance’s face seemed paler than usual, his hair a little more ruffled.

“Why would I be hiding?” I scanned the room to avoid eye contact.

“Everyone has secrets.” Matter-of-factly. “Ones we work very hard to protect.”

My blood froze. I couldn’t meet his gaze.

What did that mean? What did Chance know? What could he know?

“Is that so?” As calmly as I could muster. “And what dark secrets am I hiding?”

“I wish I knew.” Chance drew near, and this time, I couldn’t dodge his stare. “I’m getting closer, though. I’ve been doing some very interesting reading lately. Groundbreaking stuff.”

With no line of retreat, I squared my shoulders. Gave him a hard look.

“You have something to say to me, Chance?”

Our eyes locked. My fingers curled into fists so my hands wouldn’t shake.

Several beats passed. Then several more.

Chance broke first. “Just that you look stunning, as always. Enjoy the party. And for God’s sake, don’t buy any of this lawn furniture.”

Chance strolled away. I began breathing again. Willed my heart to resume beating.

He’d been close to saying something, but at the last instance, chose not to.

Then my pulse began racing.

Chance had so many pieces. Had seen more than he should have.

And now, the cryptic comments. The piercing looks. That knowing smile.

It felt like Chance was ramping up the pressure on me. Forcing things to a head.

What has he learned?

Ella appeared at my side. “That looked intense. Are you two in love?”

I started, having nearly forgotten where I was. “Hardly. I don’t think we’re in like.”

“BS.” Ella pinched my arm. “I caught him looking at you before he came over. I know a man with a crush when I see one.”

“What?” Startled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Whatever.” Ella’s tone implied her opinion.

But she was wrong.

Dead wrong, I was sure of it. At this point, Chance and I were practically enemies.

Ella was confusing affection with ferocity.

Chance had feelings toward me, no doubt. But they didn’t involve moonlit strolls on the beach. They involved revenge.

I suppressed a yawn. One hour of sleep in the last forty-eight was taking its toll.

“I’m ready when you are,” Ella said. “Is your dad still trapped by Beret Boy?”

“I’ll grab him. And Whitney, if I must. Can you snag our jackets?”

Ella nodded, heading for the coat check.

On my tiptoes, I spotted Kit stuck in the same corner. Poor guy.

I was halfway across the gallery when something caught my ear. The room was buzzing with dozens of conversations, but I’d distinctly heard a name.

Gable.

I moved left, causally joining a group admiring the show’s centerpiece. To me, it looked like an old windmill covered in silly string. But several patrons ohhed and ahhed like the Michelangelo’s David had been flown in.

Across from me, on the opposite side of sculpture, stood a group of older men. The Gable name had floated from that bunch.

I sidled clockwise for a better view. Noted a large, bearish man in a charcoal-gray suit.

Rex Gable. His face had been on TV all week.

What’s he doing here?

His children had been abducted. A gruesome tape of their imprisonment was airing nonstop. The last place he should be is at Jean-Paul Delacourt’s Awful Sculpture Extravaganza.

As I watched, Rex Gable broke out in laughter. He elbowed a shorter man at his side.

“Come off it, Miles.” Gable drained a highball glass, then slapped a beefy hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Two weeks in Argentina is just the thing. I’ll book my private plane.”

My head snapped back.

Argentina? Vacation plans? What was this guy’s problem?

I was trying to slip closer when Ella tugged my elbow.

“Less than stellar progress,” she quipped, handing me my coat. “Should we just ditch our chaperones and go clubbing?”

I whispered in her ear. “See that big guy in the dark suit?”

Ella glanced surreptitiously. Nodded.

“That’s Rex Gable. Lucy and Peter’s father. What’s he doing here?”

Ella shrugged. “Maybe he likes terrible art.”

“If my kids had been snatched, I wouldn’t go whooping it up with my buddies. What if the police get a second ransom demand, right now? What kind of father does that?”

“Stepfather,” Ella corrected.

That stopped me short. “What?”

“He’s their stepfather. Lucy and Peter’s biological dad left when they were little. I think he moved to Italy, and married a baker. I remember because my mom was friends with their mother a million years ago.”

“Stepfather.” Implications danced in my head.

Peter Gable’s image flashed in my brain. His eyes. His posture. The set of his teeth.

He knew the person.

I watched Rex Gable wave a dismissive hand at Jean-Paul’s not-a-windmill centerpiece, then lead his group over to the bar. Made a decision.

I’ll be checking into you, sir. Count on that.

“Here they come.” Ella grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit.

Kit and Whitney appeared, one bored to death, the other raving about the wonderful art. You can guess which was which.

We made our way outside. Kit handed his ticket to the valet attendant. We’d drop Ella at home, then proceed back to Morris.

As I stood curbside, trying to process my scattered thoughts, I noticed a black BMW idling twenty yards down the block.

What the what?

Before I could react, the car pulled from the curb and disappeared down the street.

I rubbed my face, then my eyes. Tried to make sense of things.

A black luxury car at a Gibbes Museum event? Not exactly a rarity.

But I don’t believe in coincidence.

My body was tired, and my mind completely shot, but my instincts were wide-awake.

And they were in total agreement.

I’m being followed.