Chapter 5: Sara’s Secret

I did not sleep that night.

How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Madam Curator’s ice-chip smile, heard Gregor’s footsteps in the darkness, felt the weight of Zara’s surveillance pressing down on me like a physical thing. And somewhere out there, Pete and Daniela were being held captive, their fates tied to my obedience.

The couch was cold beneath my naked body. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant siren. The smart TV glowed softly in the corner, its screen dark but its sensors active, watching, always watching.

Welcome home, Nellie.

Zara’s words echoed in my head, a reminder that I was never alone. Never private. Never safe.

I sat up, wrapped my arms around my knees, and stared at the wall. Somewhere behind that wall was the bathroom, and behind the bathroom was the loose panel under the sink, and behind the loose panel was the second notebook, the one I had started after Pete took the first. Madam Curator had not found that one. Not yet.

But she would. Eventually. Zara would find it, or Gregor would tear the apartment apart looking for evidence, or I would make a mistake and lead them right to it.

The notebook was a liability now. But it was also my only hope.

I waited until dawn, until the first gray light began to seep through the curtains, before I moved. The apartment was still quiet, the TV still dark, but I knew better than to assume I was unobserved. Zara was always watching. Always.

I walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and knelt in front of the sink. The panel came away easily, revealing the space behind. I reached in, felt around, and found the notebook where I had left it, small, ordinary, filled with my cramped handwriting.

I held it for a long moment, weighing it in my hands. This was everything, every observation, every name, every detail of the gallery’s crimes. If Madam Curator found it, I was dead. If I kept it hidden, it might be the key to freeing Pete and Daniela and everyone else.

But I could not keep it here. Not anymore. The apartment was compromised, and Zara’s surveillance was too thorough.

I needed a new hiding place. Somewhere they would never think to look.

The thought came to me slowly, taking shape in the gray morning light. The gallery. The main exhibition hall. The participants.

Sara.

I arrived at Luxury Apartments at my usual time, went through the motions of my workday, and pretended that everything was normal. Margaret watched me with worried eyes but did not ask questions. The tenants stared at my naked body but did not comment. The hours passed in a blur of showings and paperwork and mindless tasks that required no thought.

At 5:00, I drove to Tiny Treasures, empty now, Pete and Daniela gone, Ms. Patricia’s worried face appearing in the window as I pulled into the lot.

“Nellie.” She came out to meet me, her steel-gray hair pulled back in its usual bun, her sharp eyes taking in my nakedness, my exhaustion, my desperation. “Where is Daniela? Pete said she had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, but he did not bring her back, and when I called.”

“They are gone.” My voice was flat, hollow. “The gallery took them.”

“Took them? What do you mean, take them?”

“I cannot explain. Not here. Not now.” I looked around the parking lot, searching for cameras, for listening devices, for anything that might be reporting back to Zara. “But I need you to do something for me. Something important.”

Ms. Patricia’s expression hardened. “Anything. You know that.”

“I need you to remember that I was here. That I asked for help. I tried to stop them.” I pressed the second notebook into her small, ordinary, easy-to-hide hands. “Keep this safe. Do not read it. Do not show it to anyone. If something happens to me, give it to the police. Or a reporter. Anyone who can help.”

“Nellie”

“Please. It is the only thing I have left.”

She looked down at the notebook, then back at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I will keep it safe. I promise.”

“Thank you.” I hugged her quickly, feeling the warmth of her body against my bare skin, and then I pulled away and walked back to my car.

I had one more stop to make before the gallery.

The church was small, old, tucked away on a side street I had never noticed before. Ms. Patricia had given me the address, along with a name: Father Michael. “He helps people,” she had said. “People who cannot go to the police. People who need sanctuary.”

I parked in the lot, walked up the steps, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The interior was dim, lit only by candles and the faint light filtering through stained glass windows. The air smelled of incense and old wood and something else, something that might have been hoped.

“Can I help you?” A voice came from the front of the church, and I saw a figure rise from one of the pews, a man in his sixties, bald, wearing a simple black cassock.

“Father Michael?”

“That is me. And you are...” He stopped, his eyes taking in my nakedness, and for a moment I saw something flicker across his face, surprise, maybe, or concern. Then he smiled, warm and genuine, and walked toward me. “You are someone who needs help.”

“My name is Nellie. Nellie Genovese.” I stood in the center of the aisle, naked and exposed, and tried to find the words. “My husband and daughter have been taken. By a gallery ... They are being held as ... as leverage. To keep me compliant.”