The cold night air had settled hard into the dark, narrow alleyway. Camille held firmly to Art’s backpack and shuffled her feet to avoid tripping in the gloom. She listened intently for any sound that might signal the approach of pursuers. But the alley was disconcertingly quiet. The girl looked up. She could see the snow swirling in the sky far above her.
Glancing around Art’s shoulder for any sign of light up ahead, Camille saw nothing. She had lost all sense of depth perception, and her inner GPS had failed her completely. How far had they walked? How far did they have to go?
“You okay?” asked Art.
“I’m fine,” she replied, which was a complete lie. She was, in fact, exhausted, hungry, freezing, and scared.
“Just a little farther,” he said. His voice echoed ever so slightly in the narrow canyon of brick and mortar. It occurred to Camille how much Art had changed since that morning. Quiet and uncertainty had given way to confidence and determination. She could hear the shift in his voice. She could see it in his eyes.
They shuffled forward slowly for a couple more minutes in the dark. Camille continued to listen for any sign that they were being followed, but the only sound she heard was the soft swish-swish of her feet as they made their way along the concrete path. The sound was soothing and rhythmic—it made her realize how tired she was. She thought of her soft, warm bed at home.
Suddenly, Art stopped. Caught off-guard, Camille stumbled forward and planted her face squarely into his backpack.
“Ouch!” she exclaimed.
“Shhh,” Art whispered. “We’re here.”
He moved forward a couple of steps so she could see. Just a few yards to their right, a rusted lamp hung from the side of a windowless brick wall. Beneath its faint light was a metal door, painted a dingy gray and heavily dented. The kids made their way over to the entrance and stood beneath the lamp. Camille felt as if she were in a spotlight—not a particularly wonderful place to be, considering what they had already been through that afternoon.
There was a small sign on the door:
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY DEPARTMENT OF FINE ARTS
UNIVERSITY PERSONNEL AND STUDENTS ONLY
“Maybe you’re some sort of genius,” said Camille. “Maybe you’re already in college, and that’s how you know so much about art.”
“I’m not a genius,” said Art.
Camille shrugged. “You never know.”
Art grabbed the door handle, pushed down on the thumb lever, and pulled. The door didn’t budge.
“Locked,” he said. “Let’s go around to the front of the building—maybe the door is open on the other side. Or maybe there’s a window we can try to open.”
“Or,” replied Camille, “you could try the key.”
It had clearly not occurred to Art that the studio key might also open the door into the building. He took the key from his pocket, placed it into the lock, and turned. Once more, he grabbed the door handle, pushed down on the thumb lever, and pulled.
The door opened easily.
“Then again,” said Camille, “maybe you aren’t a genius.”
Art ignored her and peeked inside.
“Long hallway,” he said to Camille. “But it looks empty.”
He opened the door some more for Camille to step inside, removed the key, and followed her into the hallway. He pulled the door shut behind them and gave it a push to make sure it had locked.
The hallway was painted a pale industrial green—the sort of color you find in old hospitals and high schools—and the floor was a well-worn gray linoleum with little black specks. The building smelled of turpentine and dust. The lights in the hallway—metal boxes filled with long fluorescent bulbs and built into the drop-down ceiling—were spaced too far apart to properly illuminate the long, narrow corridor, creating alternating pockets of deep shadows. To their right was another metal door with a sign indicating that it led to a set of stairs. The light from the illuminated exit sign above their heads cast an eerie red glow around them.
“Good thing there’s nothing creepy about this place,” said Camille.
Art pointed at the stairs. “Second floor,” he said. “That’s where the guy at the coffee shop said we need to go.”
“No,” Camille replied. “He said the key goes to a room on the second floor. He didn’t say we had to go there.”
But she knew there was no sense in arguing. Art had already opened the door to the stairwell and stepped inside. Camille reluctantly followed.
Detective Evans watched as Mary Sullivan made her way down the stairs and across the lobby of the hotel. She could see the disappointment in Mary’s face.
Evans debated whether to tell Mary about the missing security footage at the hotel. Earlier, when the detective had learned that the video at the National Gallery of Art had been erased, she had been willing to explain it away as a glitch in the system. But for security footage to disappear at two different locations was not a coincidence. It now seemed clear that whatever was going on involved way more than two kids wandering off from the museum.
“No sign of them,” said Mary dejectedly as she made her way over to the detective. “And I looked. I mean, I really looked. In every room, under every table, in the stairwell. There’s no way they’re in this hotel.”
“I’ve put out an alert for Camille and the boy,” said Detective Evans. “There’re going to be a lot of cops looking for those kids.”
Mary nodded. She looked tired. “This has something to do with the boy, doesn’t it?” she asked.
Detective Evans hesitated. “I don’t think we can really know at this—”
Mary interrupted her. “The truth,” she said. “Please.”
“Yes,” replied the detective. “I think this has something to do with the boy.”