We messaged, chatted on apps, commented on social media posts, video-called, or communicated on servers. Voice calls were for the rare occasions our hands were occupied with mostly dead octogenarians, baking disasters, or true emergencies.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Chloe didn’t live near any seniors, and she wasn’t baking tonight.
“Help! I’m trapped.”
My body went from chill to panicked in a heartbeat. “Where are you? I’ll be right there.”
“What’s up?” Cristian had removed his shirt to stack the bolts of cloth, not because the work was particularly taxing, but because he liked to show off the results of his gym obsession.
“I have to go.” I tossed the keys to him. “Lock up for me. I’ll owe you.”
“Does that mean we get to play Murder in the Dark?” he called out.
“You wish.” I pushed open the door to the shop and put Chloe on speaker so I could figure out the fastest way to get to her.
“The door’s locked.” Chloe’s voice rose in pitch. “I can’t open it.”
“Do you know where you are? Did you see the van? Was it white? Were you blindfolded? Did you count turns like we learned in self-defense class? How about sounds? Smells? Did you call the police?”
“I can’t call the police,” she sobbed. “They’ll think I did it.”
“Did what? You’re losing me, babe. Take a breath and calm down. Where are you?”
“I’m at the museum,” she said. “The door was open, and the lights were on when I arrived, but no one was here. I figured they’d started the tour without me because I was late. I was looking for them when I heard breaking glass upstairs. I went up to see what was going on, and as soon as I walked into the upper gallery, the door slammed shut behind me. It can’t be opened from the inside. I called the museum phone number, and I sent an e-mail to the museum address, but no one responded. I never communicated with the executive director directly, so I don’t have his details. I don’t know who else to call.”
“What about Michael P?”
“He isn’t here . . .” Chloe’s voice wavered. “He isn’t anywhere. I tried to message him, but I can’t find the server he set up for the project. I can’t find any of our messages, the digital contract, the work order, or my report. His profile on the freelancing platform is gone, too. It’s all gone. It’s like he never existed.”
My skin prickled in warning. “What about his company?”
“It doesn’t exist. There’s no record of it online, and I had no direct communication with them. Michael approached me directly through the freelancing platform. He said he’d been hired by the museum to do a red-blue penetration test and I was on the red team, which attacks the system and breaks into defenses. It all seemed aboveboard.”
I looked up the address of the Victoria Museum. I usually took the L train to get around, but depending on the location, it was sometimes faster to take an Uber.
“Just hang on. I’m figuring out the fastest way to get there.”
“There’s something else . . .” Chloe hesitated. “One of the glass display cases in the jewelry exhibit has been smashed—that must have been the sound I heard—and a necklace is missing. There’s a trail of glass leading to the window.”
“Do you think someone stole it while you were there?”
“I don’t know what I think,” she said. “Michael told me the museum had just combined their access and security systems into one integrated security management system and they needed to test it for vulnerabilities before the museum opened their new vintage and ancient jewelry exhibition. I hacked into the system, identified the weaknesses, and sent him my report. I recommended they separate physical and cybersecurity because, in an integrated system, a hacker can shut down the security of the entire museum. With the information in the report, it would have been easy for him to turn everything off and walk right in.”
“But why lock you in?” I asked. “If the police show up, they’ll search you and see you don’t have the necklace. You can’t be accused of the theft.”
“What if they accuse me of being an accomplice?” Her voice rose in pitch. “I didn’t make any effort to hide my digital trail because I thought the job was legit. The police will see I hacked the system. And now here I am locked in the museum at night with a smashed display case. They won’t look for the real thief because they’ve got me.”
No. No. No. Chloe could not go to jail. She was everything that was good and kind in the world. She had a thirteen-year-old daughter who needed her mom and a bestie who needed her strength. After enduring six years with Kyle, she’d suffered enough.
“We need to get you out of there before the police show up so they can concentrate on finding the real thief,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
“There’s nothing you can do.” Her voice hitched, and I heard the soft thud of a fist on metal. “It’s a security door. It won’t open unless the system is turned on, and if you turn on the system, the alarm will go off because the sensors on the glass case will have been triggered.” Her words came faster, running into one another in a way I’d never heard before. Chloe was the calm one, the steady one. Just the idea that she was so frightened she could barely put a sentence together made my stomach churn.
“What about the window? If the thief got out, you can, too.”
“It’s two stories up a sheer brick wall at the back of the museum. You know how I am about heights.” She gave a hollow laugh. “I always knew it would be my downfall.”
“Babe . . .” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “We’re talking prison if they find you in there. We’ll work through the height thing together. I’ll see what I can grab from the shop. Definitely some rope . . .” My mind circled back to all the murder mysteries and thrillers I’d watched with Rose over the last year. I was tempted to give her a call. She was a crime show addict. If anyone knew how to get out of a locked museum, it was her.
“I don’t know what to do.” Chloe choked back a sob. “Olivia . . . she’ll be alone.”
“I got you,” I told her. “Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
?I had too much gear and not enough time, so I called an Uber. “Emma” arrived two minutes later in her black “I’m a single independent woman who needs no man” Ford Flex.
Half Jeep, half SUV, and all muscle, Emma’s vehicle was a fitting ride for someone who was the epitome of Elle King’s “Chain Smokin, Hard Drinkin, Woman.” I guessed her to be in her late thirties, maybe a few years younger. Her short dark hair was cut ragged and dyed with bright pink streaks. She was all curves beneath a black tank cut low to show off her ample cleavage and two full sleeves of ink.
“I’m on a rescue mission,” I said after I’d climbed into her vehicle with a doubled-over suit bag filled with ropes, hangers, a blanket, and random things I’d grabbed that might help get the rope up and Chloe down.