Chapter Three

August 20X6, Pittsburgh

There are no cameras in the stairwells—they are all concentrated in the galleries themselves, monitoring both the artwork and the people passing through—but there is a motion sensor near the elevator. The lack of air conditioning should have increased the temperature in the room enough that my body heat won’t be detected if I move slowly.

I raise my scrambrella to shield myself from the cameras and click on the LED lights positioned under the bill of my hat. The tiny infrared beams dot my face, disguising it to read as Tyson’s. Tiptoeing with measured steps, I head toward the wide glass doors in the gallery across the hall, keeping focus on the Time Capsules that are visible through the windows. The collection of cardboard boxes containing sketches, invitations, photographs, press clippings—anything that came across Warhol’s desk—are wrapped in plastic and lined up, eleven across, on metal shelves that go all the way to the ceiling. Tyson told me the audio tapes discovered in the Time Capsules were sealed until 20Z7 because recording people without their permission was illegal in the 1960s and 1970s. The law allowed the recordings to become public record fifty years after Warhol’s death. There are four thousand audio tapes in the collection and the one I’m after was never made public for some reason. I’m sure that has to do with why I’m stealing it.

The Time Capsule archives are secured in their own climate-controlled space that has its own HVAC system not connected to the main system, so I’m not able to get in through the vents. I have to use the door. As does Garrett. Unless he knows of a way in that I don’t. I don’t sense any movement from inside the archives but that doesn’t mean anything. He snuck up on me from inside the cloud room. He could be hiding anywhere. And hopefully he didn’t already steal the tape.

When I arrive in front of the glass doors, I make sure my hat is in place. Once my face is scanned, the AI system will note a door is open on a closed floor and that Tyson is both outside the second-floor restroom—unless he went inside and discovered me missing, in which case I have a bigger problem—and here, entering the Time Capsule Archives. But the discrepancy report won’t be checked for another thirteen minutes. Ideally, I’ll be halfway to my hideout by then.

Filling my lungs with air, I deactivate the scrambrella and wave the access bracelet in front of the lock before I can second-guess myself. I stand frozen, unblinking, letting the lock scan my face, and only exhale when the blinking red light on the panel turns green and plays a tinny musical jingle.

The tension goes out of my shoulders as the doors slide open with a puff of confined air. Closing the scrambrella, I slip inside the research room. My skin prickles as I pass a long table littered with white gloves and tweezers from that day’s research and come to a stop at a second set of glass doors. This lock again relies on facial recognition but also requires a fingerprint—which was easy enough to lift from my wrist screen when I had Tyson scroll through Willa’s Network feed a couple days ago. Back in the safety of my loft, I used glue to make a mold of the print that I wear now.

I remove my glove and make sure the glue copy is in place before pressing my thumb to the sensor, triggering the face scan. This time the lasers graze my features for a moment longer than before and my chest tightens with the fear I’ll be discovered as the fraud that I am. But a second later I’m again greeted with a green light and a song. I let out a huge breath as the doors open. The temperature drops ten degrees on a blast of cool air, but I barely notice.

The Time Capsules await.

There are 610 boxes in the collection, but only 138 of them are in this room. The audio tape I’m after is in number 78.

On alert for evidence that Garrett beat me here—or is planning to swoop in and ambush me—I slide my hand back into my glove as I inch across the room, my pulse roaring in my ears, to the last row of shelves where time capsule 78 sits, its plastic wrap perfectly stretched over the corners and intact. It appears I’m first to arrive and a warm rush floods my veins. Biting back a smile, I carefully slide the cardboard box off the shelf before setting it on the floor. I crouch and unwrap the plastic before opening the box’s flaps. Having been trained to respect the property it is my duty to steal, my gloved fingers carefully pick through the objects inside. I quickly set aside artifacts—a silver and white wig, a banana-shaped harmonica, a packet of fan letters—until I find what I’m looking for. The tape.

A little thrill shoots through me as I pick up the black plastic rectangle labeled “Interview with Jackie Kennedy December 17, 1964” in loopy handwriting on a white sticker. I slip the cassette into the pocket on my garter and I’m about to close the box when an envelope bearing a pencil sketch of a woman catches my eye. Something about her expression—the wistfulness in her eyes, the sadness that is evident despite her small smile—draws me in, like a bittersweet reminder of who I am, and I want to savor it.

Take it. The voice is wind.

Ding ding. Outside the glass room, the elevator doors slide open.

My stomach twists and I squint into the hallway, waiting for someone—Garrett? Tyson? Security?—to emerge, my heart hammering. Seconds tick by and the muscles in my legs twitch, urging me to run, but I hold steady. All is silent. The doors close and, satisfied I’m still alone but on high alert, I hardly notice as I tuck the sketch into the pocket with the tape. I check my wrist screen: 9:12. Right on time.

I close the time capsule, rewrap it in plastic, and slide it back onto the shelf before retracing my steps. After the automatically locking doors close behind me, I cross the research room, ticking off my next moves as I go, each one calculated—scrambrella up, take the elevator down to the lobby, tuck scrambrella into purse, walk out the front door.

At least that’s my plan.

But, like my instincts promised, nothing ever goes according to plan.

When the elevator doors open, Garrett, still disguised as Professor Humbolton, is lounging casually against the back wall, his arms folded across his chest.

The air freezes in my lungs and for a moment I’m paralyzed.

“Willa.” He smiles. “Going down?”

Forcing myself to breathe, I will my limbs to move into the elevator and thrust my chin skyward like I could care less about his presence.

“Not without a fight.” I lower my scrambrella and turn my back to him, refusing to dignify him with so much as a glance.

He laughs. Leaning over my shoulder, he presses the elevator button to close the doors and whispers in my ear, “Did you get the tape?”