Page 31

Lars reemerged from the makeup area, panic pulsing through his veins. Marit wasn’t there. He’d known it after the first time he’d checked, but he’d run out of places to look for her, and desperation was making him second-guess everything. He stopped, forcing himself to think past his fears. There had to be somewhere he’d missed. He didn’t believe for one minute that she’d gone back to the flat or even to a nurse’s station within the building. If she’d really taken ill, she would have called him or told Isabelle before she’d left.

Two assistants hurried past, carrying clothes toward the changing rooms. Isabelle had gone to check that area. He trusted her to do a thorough job, and she hadn’t emerged from there yet. Moving quickly, he cut around the assistants, heading directly for the changing area. He caught movement at his left and glanced that way in time to see Isabelle slip out from between the black curtains behind the changing rooms. Veering that direction, he came up beside her.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I found her clothes, so she’s wearing one of Adams’s outfits. Probably the purple jumpsuit.”

Lars didn’t care what Marit was wearing. He just wanted to find her.

“What’s behind the black curtain?”

“There’s a narrow gap between the curtain and the partition that cordons off this part of the museum.”

It was somewhere new to search, and Lars seized on it. “How far down did you go?”

“I checked the section behind the changing area.”

He was already heading toward the break in the curtain. “I’ll continue left if you’ll see how much farther it goes on the right.”

Isabelle nodded. “I’ll meet you back here afterward.”

The black curtain was heavy, and the moment Lars stepped behind it, his visibility dropped. Faint light filtered in from above the top of the partition, but it was barely enough to pick out the large extension cords running across the floor. Deciding that the risk of his phone light being seen through the curtain was less than his risk of tripping and bringing the curtain down around him, he turned the light on. The bright light illuminated a meter or two ahead of him. Three cables and the bulky base of the curtain’s metal frame lay across the floor ahead of him. He released a tense breath. It was a good thing he’d turned on the light.

Stepping over the obstacles, he continued forward, moving as quickly as he dared. Another few meters and the darkness eased a fraction. Lowering his phone, he moved closer. There appeared to be a break in the partition. He slowed his pace, approaching the gap cautiously even as he attempted to picture exactly where he was on the Louvre’s floor plan. The main entrance to the fashion show would be on the opposite side, which meant that security would be tightest over there, but this area would undoubtedly be blocked off. There may not be anything of interest to the public back here, but they’d want to prevent anyone from accessing backstage.

He peered around the partition. Sure enough, the hall beyond was completely empty. He stepped into it, glancing up and down. No sign of security. But no sign of anyone else either. A sign on the wall at his right caught his attention. Toilets. Crossing the short distance at a run, he darted into the men’s toilets. The entire place was empty. He exited and eyed the ladies’ toilets. If anyone other than Marit was inside, he’d apologize later.

“Coming in!” he yelled, bursting into the tiled room. A row of sinks faced a row of toilet stalls. “Marit!”

He was met by silence. Walking along the length of the room, he pushed open each stall door. No one. And no sign of anyone having been there for some time. These toilets probably hadn’t been used since the Fashion Week props and equipment had been installed.

Hurrying out, he paused in the middle of the hall to scan the area again. “Where are you, Marit?”

Desperation was threatening to consume him, but the only response to his muttered question was a faint thud from somewhere nearby. Clenching his fists, Lars attempted to push past his panic. Was it worth his time to go any farther down the hall? And if so, which way? The faint thud sounded again. The thick curtain muted all the backstage noises, but the thud hadn’t seemed to be coming from there. It had come from his left. He started in that direction. Another thud. It was coming from behind a door labeled Janitor’s Cupboard .

In three seconds, he’d reached the door. Grabbing the handle, he attempted to turn it. It was locked.

“Marit. Are you in there?”

Three more thuds vibrated through the wood. Lars’s heart began to pound. If she wasn’t responding verbally, she must be gagged. He had to get the door open. Fast. His mind raced. Who would have a key? Or who could get in without one?

“Hang on, Marit!” His voice was low, urgent. He couldn’t risk anyone else hearing him, but he hoped she could. “I’m going for help.”

Tearing across the hall, he slid through the gap in the partition. Directly in front of him was a break in the dark curtain. With a level of caution he wished he could ignore, he carefully eased the fabric back a few centimeters. A quick look into the backstage area told him that the show was still in full swing. Blending into the chaos would be easy enough. He stepped through the curtain and had only taken three steps when he heard Isabelle’s voice.

“Lars! Over here.”

He swung around. She was standing partially hidden behind another curtain.

“My assistant’s looking for me,” she said. “Standing in the changing area wasn’t an option.”

“Good thinking,” Lars said. “We’ve got more important things to deal with. I think I’ve found Marit, but I need Cole to get her out of a locked closet.”

“Cole’s not back yet.” She glanced at the cluster of assistants standing at the nearest clothing rack. “But if you can get me a metal nail file from one of the makeup stations, I can open it.”

Lars didn’t question her. He made directly for the closest table. Three makeup artists were talking together a couple of meters away. Offering up a silent prayer that none of them would look his way, he eyed the rows of brushes, bottles, tubes, powders, and swabs. There had to be a nail file among all this stuff. He glanced over his shoulder. No one had noticed him yet. Shifting a jar full of brushes, he reached for one filled with small utensils. Tweezers, nail scissors, clippers. Finally. A nail file. Pulling it out of the jar, he took off the way he’d come.

Isabelle must have been watching for him. She was already slipping through the curtain when he reached her hiding spot. Together they crept behind the partition and down the hall.

“Right there,” he said as they passed the bathrooms, handing her the nail file and pointing to the janitor’s cupboard.

She ran across the hall, and within seconds, she was on her knees, pressing the nail file into the gap between the door and the frame. There was another thud, and the door vibrated.

“Hang on, Marit.” Like Lars, Isabelle kept her voice low, her concentration fully on the lock. She shifted her wrist a fraction. “I’ve almost got it.”

Keeping the nail file in place with one hand, she lifted the other to the doorknob and pulled. She scrambled to her feet as Lars reached for the door and drew it open. Marit was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up, her ankles bound. Her arms were pulled back behind her, and a purple sash was tied around her mouth. She was squinting, blinking against the light. But she was alive.

Relief swept over Lars in a tidal wave only to be replaced moments later by a surge of fury at the man behind this despicable act. He reached around Marit’s head, tugging at the knot that bound her gag tight. She closed her eyes and moaned. He eased his frantic movements, drawing one end of the sash through the knot more gently.

“I’m so sorry, Marit.” His emotions swirled. He didn’t know what he wanted most: to wrap Marit in his arms or to take down Adams.

Vaguely aware that Isabelle was working to release Marit’s ankles, Lars loosened the gag enough to pull it free from Marit’s mouth. She gasped as though taking in air for the first time after having been underwater.

“I prayed you would come.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“She needs water,” Isabelle said.

Lars scoured the shelves behind them. Toilet paper, paper towels, plastic bags, cleaning supplies. No cups. With fumbling fingers, he separated the two ends of the sash and pulled it free from Marit’s neck. “Give me ten seconds,” he said.

He ran into the men’s toilets, turned on the closest sink, and dunked the sash under the tap. When the fabric was completely saturated, he turned off the tap and raced back to the janitor’s closet. Isabelle had freed Marit’s feet and was now working on her wrists. Lars knelt down beside his girlfriend and lifted the sodden fabric to her mouth. Drips of water ran down his arms and fell to the floor.

“It’s not a cup,” he said, “but it’s wet. Maybe it will help.”

Marit opened her mouth to accept the wet fabric. She sucked some of the moisture out before swallowing, her expression indicating that the simple action was painful.

“Who was it?” Isabelle asked.

Marit drew her hands out from behind her back. Her wrists were raw and bleeding. Softly, Lars placed the wet cloth on them.

“Kyle Adams,” Marit said.

“Where’s Cole?” Lars asked, doing nothing to hide the anger in his voice. “It’s time to go after Adams.”

“He hasn’t gotten back from talking to security.” Isabelle looked over her shoulder. “He should be here any minute.”

Leaving the wet cloth draped across Marit’s wrists, Lars leaned forward and cupped her face gently in his hand. “I’m going to find Cole and update security about what’s happened. I promise you, Adams won’t be walking out of here a free man.” Knowing that she was too fragile to be kissed the way he wanted to kiss her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

“It...” Marit swallowed and winced. “It might take me a few minutes before I’m up for walking, but if Isabelle’s here, I’ll be okay.”

Lars looked at Isabelle.

She nodded. “I’ve got this. Go find Cole.”