Page 4 of Devious Knight

Isabelle

New York, 3 years ago…

It’s snowing again. The beautiful kind of fluttering snow that people adore at this time of year.

I’m working in the souvenir shop at an art gallery for the rest of the day, so I’ll be fully immersed in the view of the winter wonderland. Despite being situated in the heart of Lower Manhattan, the view outside the window is starting to look like a scene from the Chronicles of Narnia.

Usually I love watching the snow. At one point in my life I was obsessed with it and would do anything ice or snow related. My parents thought it was because I was born during a snowstorm in Siberia. That earned me the nickname of the Ice Princess.

As gorgeous as it is outside–Hallmark Christmas card worthy–all I can think about is the man.

The man who promised to help me identify my mother’s killer.

The man who said he’d help me find the answers I desperately need.

The man who hasn’t shown up again.

He never let me down before and has always been true to his word.

Except he didn’t turn up on Thursday at lunchtime like he promised.

I thought maybe he got caught up with the Christmas holidays and the New Year's celebrations, but there’s been no trace of him.

Today is Sunday. My last day here. I’m back at school next week. Once I leave here the opportunity to find out the truth about the person who wanted my mother dead will be gone.

My worries have reduced me to a shadow of my usual cheerful self and I look a mess. I look as dreadful as my older cousin Persephone did when she came back from a crazy three-day bender after her college graduation.

My usually glossy black hair is dull and rolled into a messy bun. My pale skin is so blotchy I look like I’ve been making out with a poison ivy bush, and my bright blue eyes are red and rimmed with dark circles from the lack of sleep.

When the man didn't show up I went into a deep panic and spiraled into worry that I’d never see him again. The sudden reminder sends a pang of dread coiling through me that makes my stomach squeeze like a weight is pressing down on it.

Please, God. Let him come in today.

Just one more time.

If I don’t see him again I’ll be back at square one.

I don’t even know his name. And I barely have a description—six feet six with dark hair and in his mid- to late forties. Without a photo that could fit a million other men who live in New York City.

Regardless, I could never tell anyone about him. Or what we planned and plotted together, and that I knowingly helped him—someone who I now think is a hacker—gain access to the gallery’s security system.

I have no idea what the hell he did once he got into the system, but I was the one who opened the door and let him in. At the tender age of fifteen I feel like I’m a prisoner on death row.

But I helped him for a reason.

For her—Mom.

I want justice.

Resting my shaking hands on the countertop, I gaze at the shop’s glass doors, my heart praying that the next person who walks through will be the man.

Several frustrating minutes later I glance at the clock and my heart sinks further. It’s nearly three. I hate to admit it, but he should be here by now. He always comes in with the lunchtime crowd.

The bell above the door jingles as it swings open. Like a dog waiting for its owner to return, I snap my gaze back to it, hoping to find the man walking through.

But it’s not him. It’s the young couple from England who I got talking to over the last few weeks. They’re both art professors at Cambridge University. They’re also both sculptors. During our many conversations they’ve shown me pictures of their work, and I showed them mine.

They smile at me when they notice me. I smile back, feeling like my face will crack from moving out of the permanent frown I’ve been sporting.

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