Chapter 23: The Curator's Last Show

Mara's POV

Teo came out of surgery at four that afternoon.

The bullet had missed his heart by the width of a finger.

The surgeon said so twice.

I sat by the bed until his eyes opened and found me.

"You shot him," he said, hoarse.

"I did."

"Good."

I laughed, and then I put my head on the blanket and shook for a while.

When I lifted it, Fausto stood in the doorway with his cane.

"The curator has not left the city," he said. "She went straight to the gallery. She has a flight at nine."

I wiped my face.

"Stay," I told Teo. "Don't move."

"I'm shot, Mara."

"I know. Stay anyway."

The gallery wing in Chelsea was dark when I got there.

The chair was waiting at the door with two of his men.

Behind him stood nine women in coats, all in a row, with their purses clasped in front of them.

My ledger women.

I had not seen all nine of them in one place since my wedding.

"We heard what happened at the club," said the oldest, a bookkeeper in her sixties with half-glasses on a chain. "We came as soon as we could."

"She's inside?"

"She's packing," said the chair. "She has been at it for an hour."

We went in together.

Sheridan stood in the main hall with three open cases at her feet and her coat already on.

Around her, the walls were bare.

She had taken down every painting from the opening.

She turned when the lights came up.

She saw the chair, then the nine women, and last me.

"Mara," she said. "I can explain."

"Can you?"

"Benny made me. He found me in a hole in Newark. I owed him forty thousand and he said he'd break my hands."

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