I swing around to find Marty standing in the alley doorway behind us. Eavesdropping and horrified. Ellie tries to cover for us. But she’s bad at it.
“Marty! When did you get here? We weren’t gonna do anything wrong.”
Covert ops are not in her future.
“Not anything wrong?” he mimics, stomping into the room. “Like getting us shut down by the goddamn health department? Like feeding people dog-drool pies—have you no couth?”
“It was just a thought,” Ellie swears—starting to laugh.
“A momentary lapse in judgment,” I say, backing her up.
“We’re just really tired and—”
“And you’ve been in this kitchen too long.” He points to the door. “Out you go.”
When we don’t move, he goes for the broom.
“Go on—get!”
Ellie grabs her knapsack and I guide her out the back door as Marty sweeps at us like we’re vermin.
Out on the pavement, it starts to rain—a light, annoying mist. From the corner of my eye, I see Ellie pull her hood up, but my gaze stays trained ahead of us. If your eyes are on the person you’re supposed to be protecting, you’re doing it wrong.
I take note of who else is on the street, reading their body language—pedestrians on their way to work, a homeless guy on the corner, a businessman smoking a cigarette and yelling into his phone. I stick close to Ellie, keeping her within reach, scanning left to right for potential threats or anyone who might make the poor decision to try and get too close. It’s second nature.
“Do you need to head to school?”
“Not yet. It’s finals week, so I have free study periods first and second.”
Without needing to look, I text Tommy that I’ll get Ellie to school—he should meet us there.
The rain grows stronger and there’s a flash of lightning in the gray sky.
“Is there somewhere particular you want to go?”
I don’t want her getting ill from the rain.
“I know a place.” And her little hand wraps around my wrist. “Come on.”
By the time we pass through the stone arch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it’s full-out pouring, the water coursing over the entrance steps in a hundred little rivulets. Inside the marble-floored foyer, it’s warm and dry. Ellie shakes the water from her hoodie and wrings out her long, multicolored hair and I catch her scent. It’s sweet—peach, orange blossoms and rain.
“My mom used to bring me and Olivia here all the time.”
I reach for my wallet, but Ellie flashes a student ID and slides two vouchers to the ticket taker. “I have guest passes,” she says, “and they have early-access hours for students.”
I’ve never been to a museum—not as a patron, anyway. The royal family has attended more museum events and galas than I can count, but my attention wasn’t on the exhibits. I walk beside Ellie from one cavernous room to the next, and she chatters away the whole time, like her mouth’s incapable of being still for too long.
“Did you always want to be a bodyguard?”
“No,” I grunt.
“What did you want to be?”
“Something I was good at.”
Her head tilts, looking up at me. “How did you end up being Nicholas’s guard?”
“I was in the military. I was good at it—got picked for special training.”
“Like, James Bond, Navy SEAL kind of stuff?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Ellie’s head bobs as she thinks. Her golden hair is drying now, and there’s a soft wave to it. She stops in front of an Egyptian display, and the reflection of light off the sarcophagus casts her features in warm-toned shadows.
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
I’m careful with my answer. “What amendment in your Constitution protects people from self-incrimination?”
“The fifth.”
I nod. “I’ll go with that. Final answer.”
She’s not at all put off by my reply. Her long, pale lashes blink at me curiously. “I don’t think I could ever kill someone.”
“You’d be surprised what you’re capable of in certain situations.”
A few steps later she asks, “If you had killed someone . . . would you feel bad?”
I run my tongue over the inside of my cheek and go with honesty, no matter how it might come off. “No, I wouldn’t. There are some in this world who need killing, Ellie.”
I open the door for her and she hums as she passes through—into a fashion exhibit room, all low lighting and seductive red walls.
“So what’s with the dark clothes?” she asks as we walk down the hall. “Is it like a mandatory dress code they taught you at Bodyguard School?”