Grant was now standing opposite her desk, listening intently. Zahra didn’t care that he was poking his head in her family’s business. His interest in the goings-on was the least of her worries right now.
The statement hit Zahra hard. The accident had been labeled as a simple hit and run by the police. But Zahra specifically remembered the fear in her parents’ voices. They had been hunted by someone that wanted them dead.
Zahra and her father needed to have a face-to-face about it.
“Hang on, Baahir. Back it up a little. I thought Mom and Dad bought the jar from a street vendor?”
“Or…” Zahra said, “they lied to us about its origin.”
Zahra didn’t have a real answer. She had assumed that the vendor had made it, or possibly bought it from the person who had built it, though it was also just as likely that the vendor had discovered it, or even stolen it from the person who had. Then, he sold it to the Kanes before he could be implicated in its theft. Now, Zahra’s family was squarely in these people’s crosshairs — whoever the hell they were.
“What is it?” Zahra asked, picturing her brother slinking in and out of the shadows. She sat at her desk and closed her eyes, concentrating on the call.
Baahir spoke, his voice incredibly low.
“Baahir?”
“Rahal?” Zahra asked, recalling his name.
“Baahir?” she asked, waiting for a reply. But none came. She launched back to her feet. Zahra’s office chair zoomed across the space and slammed into something with a crash of glass. She held her phone out in front of her face. “Baahir!”
She eyed the screen.
Grant stepped around her desk and reached a gentle hand out for her shoulder. “You okay, Zah —?”
She tossed her phone on her desk and pushed Grant away, diving for her computer. Zahra’s fingers flew over the keyboard with lightning speed. She knew a lot about the shadowy organization that Baahir had mentioned, but she didn’t know everything.
As soon as she entered the Google search, the lights in her office, and presumably the entire museum, went out, as did the Wi-Fi. Red emergency lights came to life, basking Zahra and Grant in their eerie, hellish glow.
“What happened?” Grant asked, slinking back.
Zahra looked down at her phone, then back to her now blank computer screen. Her brother’s warning was swiftly coming to fruition.
Her eyes shifted to her terrified assistant. “They’re here.”
“Who’s here?” Grant asked. His voice and hands shook.
Zahra faced the office door. “Trouble.”
Twenty years ago, Bernie Switzer had described the museum’s sizeable remodel as a ‘physical violation.’ But as time went by, the head of the night guard really did love what the Great Court had become. He presently stood near the center of the yawning room, in front of the cylindrical Reading Room situated there, lost in the wonder above him. On multiple occasions, each and every evening, he could be found just standing in this exact spot, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t see them, but Bernie pictured the stars shining bright, high overhead. Working nights made it difficult for him to enjoy the burning balls of firelight. He smiled. The 3,312 triangles of glass that made up the ceiling were all the stars he needed.
A sound like sandpaper on stone drew his attention away from the ceiling. He dropped his eyeline and looked left. There was only one thing between him and the western wall.
