11

Leila stood in front of the bathroom mirror, combing her hair and trying on different faces like they were masks. She went for “amiable attention,” followed by “quiet confidence,” then “ready-for-anything,” and finally the smirk—“gotcha!” But none of them worked. She gave up, tossed the phone into her velvet Versace bag, and stepped out into the corridor.

That’s when it hit her. The door across the hall was wide open, and there he stood—a man in a black tie, looking sharp enough to cut through glass, but there was something off about him. Familiar, too. His stance was casual, but you could tell he was trying too hard. He looked down at Leila—five-foot-nothing in heels—and flashed a grin that could sell ice in Siberia.

It was Tom.

Leila fought to keep her cool. He moved like a cat, gliding over to her with that silly grin still plastered on his face.

“I’m the guest of honor,” he said, like he’d just announced he won the lottery.

Leila’s smile didn’t falter. “Pretend we’ve just met,” she whispered, as they shook hands like a pair of strangers at a cocktail party. “I’ll explain later.”

Tom gave a little nod, still wearing that infuriating smile. “They offered me a job at Grossman Center,” he started, but didn’t get far.

Mikhail Grossman, the man himself, crashed the scene like a wrecking ball through fine china.

“Ah, our new head of IT! Straight from the New York jungle! Welcome, welcome!” Grossman boomed, his voice thick with too much charm and not enough sincerity. “Head of IT, huh? Sounds almost as smooth as ‘infantry,’ doesn’t it? Funny, right?” He burst into a laugh that sounded like rusty chains rattling in a blood-stained dungeon.

Leila didn’t miss a beat. “Sure thing. What’s a man like you doing in the Alps out of season, Mr Grossman2? Planning to climb every rock in sight?” Her voice had a sharp edge to it, like she wasn’t quite buying the act.

Grossman’s smile twisted into something darker. “Climbing, yes. I’ve been practicing. The mountains here have stories—climbers buried under avalanches, their bodies calling me like moths to a flame.”

Leila’s eyebrow shot up. “Dead?”

Grossman let out another one of those joyless, hollow laughs, wiping tears from his eyes. “Not yet, my dear. But who knows? For now, I’m stuck entertaining myself with… other activities.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I came to check on you. You don’t look overworked. Our little project’s starting soon, remember? Let’s keep it between us. If you qualify, there won’t be much time for a vacation.” He chuckled, glancing sideways at Tom. “In the meantime, the doctors recommend a course of sensual pleasures, no?”

Leila wasn’t sure whether to punch him or laugh. Grossman was already halfway to the dining room by the time she recovered her balance. He called over his shoulder, “Stay close, or the relatives of the deceased archaeologist will eat all the caviar!”

Grossman’s last words made Leila’s hand tremble, spilling champagne on Tom’s shoes. Tom didn’t flinch—he was used to chaos by now.

The dining room was the kind of place where you could feel the money just sitting in the air. Big windows let the mountain light flood in, casting long shadows over the oval table set for twenty. A blackened cupboard glittered with silver, and the starched tablecloth practically crackled under the weight of fine china and silverware. Yet, for all its opulence, the place felt cold. There was no warmth here, just a buffet of chilled hors d’oeuvres, soup served in earthenware bowls, and booze laid out like a survival kit for the socially awkward.

At the table, Dr. Sanchez was stirring broth like it was a magic potion, while Yellen’s student shoveled vegetable soup with all the grace of a farmhand, his elbows on the table like they owned the place.

But the real eye-catcher was Mrs. Grossman. She sat at the head of the table like some kind of queen straight out of a fever dream—her alabaster shoulders gleaming, her swanlike neck stretching above a necklace that would make a crown jewel look like costume jewelry. She looked like a woman out of an old Hollywood movie, the kind that only ever existed in black-and-white photographs.

Leila barely had time to gawk before the waiter showed up with a tray holding a steel shot glass filled with something blue and foreboding.

“A baptism of fire! Welcome to Grossman Center!” Grossman raised his own glass, that terrible grin still on his face.

“Pick an appetizer,” the waiter muttered as if to say, you’re gonna need it.

Leila grabbed a few olives, trying to play it cool. Tom, on the other hand, reached for a pickle like it was the only lifeline in sight. He squeezed half a lemon over a caviar canapé and knocked back his drink. The crowd watched, like they were waiting for him to burst into flames.

Mrs. Grossman’s voice cut through the tension like a knife dipped in ice. “Oh! That’s a real man.”

Tom forced a smile and stuffed the rest of the pickle in his mouth, probably wishing he had a watermelon-sized one to hide behind.

Dr. Sanchez raised her glass. “To Mr. Shawnberg!”

Tom bowed slightly, resisting the urge to double over from the burning in his stomach. He managed a weak smile, though, because Mrs. Grossman was watching, and for some reason, that made it hurt a little less.

Leila took her seat across from Yellen’s student, regretting it almost immediately. On Tom’s right sat Mrs. Grossman, too close for comfort, while on her left was the familiar to her Grossman’s museum curator, already well on his way to getting drunk.

The conversation drifted, as Grossman steered it, to the kind of topics that fit the room—mysteries, strange occurrences, things that made you wonder if the world outside the windows was as quiet as it seemed. Leila wasn’t listening, though. She was too busy keeping an eye on Tom, hoping he wouldn’t keel over before dessert.

In a room full of mildly bizarre characters, she knew one thing for sure—this dinner was going to get a lot more interesting.