Page 122 of Trailer Park Billionaire

I blink. “She planned this. How did she know?”

“Your boyfriend,” Pat says matter of fact. “He asked for her help. And you know how she is, she loves to meddle. Sometimes she takes this whole hands-on-approach a little too far.”

The lights outside fade. Some yellow tape flutters in the breeze next to us.

“You helped her? Why?”

Pat shrugs. “Because she asked me to. I’d do anything for her.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and starts leading me towards the annex with the offices and my lab. “Which is why I really need you to have that dinner with me like we talked about, yeah? I want to pick your brain about how I can ask her out. I know right now’s not a good time, and maybe it’ll be a while before I actually get to ask, but I figured you guys are so close, you’ll surely be able to help a friend out, right?”

My mouth drops open once more. “Right, that’s why you wanted that dinner date,” I answer like a robot. I press a hand to my chest. It feels too tight. Too full.

We step into the back hallway, past the exhibits and towards the conservation lab. The quiet buzz of the green emergency lights reflects off the polished floor. It feels eerie. Like the museum is a patient on life support.

Pat walks ahead, pulling a key from his belt and unlocking the door to the lab.

“You might want to brace yourself,” he mutters, flicking on the light.

In the corner of the room sits a massive shipping crate that would usually be used for a statue. A statue that wasn’t here when I left my office last.

A couple of nails still stick out from the edges like the whole thing was sealed in a rush.

Pat grabs a crowbar from the corner and begins prying the crate open. “Elaine knew something was up when Ben contacted her.” A plank screeches as it comes free. “Actually, that’s not true. She had suspected something was wrong a while ago, which is why she had me look after you. Then she had that talk with Ben some time ago. And what really tipped her off was the meeting she had with him yesterday. Not sure what they talked about, but she had me get some horse tranquilizer. We injected it into a cardamom-rosewater pistachio muffin.” The third plank drops with a thud, revealing soft packing foam and a tangle of limbs.

I step forward. “What the?—”

It’s Ben. He’s safe.

Folded awkwardly like some kind of poorly packed inflatable. His face is pale, drool dripping from his mouth, his shirt collar askew. He makes a tiny sound. Not quite a word. Not quite consciousness.

I stare at him.

“She said no one can resist something called a‘cardamom-rosewater pistachio muffin’. I think she bought them at the Deli next door though. And they get them from a wholesaler. Probably just vanilla.”

It looks like a smile is spreading over Ben’s face. Or he might be about to puke. It’s hard to say.

“Don’t worry,” Pat adds, crouching down to check Ben’s pulse. “It’ll wear off soon. I think. Probably. He might talk some nonsense for a bit.”

“Nothing new then,” I say and help get the last plank off. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, then take a breath.

“Alright. Let’s get him out of this,” Pat says on a sigh.

Elaine gave herself up… to save Ben.

Why would she do that?

I get a transport cart we usually use to move heavy art pieces. Pat and I lift the idiot, and lay him gently onto it. The thing creaks beneath his weight. His hand brushes mine. His fingers twitch. He murmurs something too low to understand.

Pat raises an eyebrow. “See? Looks like he’s already dreaming of you.”

I grumble audibly. Partly to cover up the tiniest warmth that spreads in my belly at the thought. “Just help me push, please.”

We wheel Ben through the museum like a stolen artifact—down silent halls and past glass cases still lit with spotlights. When we drive over a threshold, he moans once, then slumps again.

Outside, the air is cold and heavy. The last patrol car has long disappeared as we cross the lot to the RV. Pat slides the back open, and we lift Ben inside. Pat climbs in after and drags him all the way to the bed in the back.

When he returns, I turn to Pat, not sure what to say. “I don’t know how?—”

He just shakes his head. “No need. I’m happy to help, Helena. You’ll want to keep him flat for a few hours. And hydrated.”