Fifty-Three

Maria

The warmth near the windows grows unbearably hot in the late afternoon, even with the central air blasting, when I descend the spiral staircase. The heavy drapes are pulled across the windows to block out the sun.

I know that two people on staff—their routine dictated by the sun—are tasked with monitoring the indoor climate to preserve Mikhail's collection. I know that Mikhail won't be home for hours based on the position of the drapes in the living room. A creature of habit, he leaves at midday and doesn't return until dark when the drapes are pulled back again.

But the warmth isn't why my palms are sweaty.

I wipe them down the front of my T-shirt before opening the office door. I know what Mikhail will think if he catches me, but I have no intention of sitting around and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not anymore.

While he's out causing chaos, I will find a phone to call my father.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply to keep my hands from trembling when I grasp the doorknob.