Page 57 of The Artist and the Muse

He launched into a description of his time at the Capitoline museum, one of the most comprehensive museums of Italian history, I nodded and chimed in. Meanwhile, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Georgia, and I barely heard his question after he was finished answering.

“What about you, George?”

I paused, considering my response, and settled on the truth, as much as I could tell of it. “It was nice to get away from how crazy life has been and remind myself of what really matters. Great art has a way of grounding you in time and reminding you of how insignificant you are—yet also making you feel like you’re part of something far greater than yourself.”

“Sort of like God,” Hunter said. “We may feel humble and small in His presence, but He’s invited us to be part of His greater plan.”

I pondered his words. Often, I felt like I’d spent my whole life trying to be someone great. Trying to attain fame. Trying to be the person I thought my father would be proud of—trying to prove I was good enough for him and for others, maybe even for myself..

But what if I didn’t have to be? What if God was enough for me—what if I didn't need to become someone great, but to accept who He wanted me to be?

These thoughts stuck with me as I got off the plane after a nine-hour flight. We all parted ways, exchanging phone numbers andgoodbyes before heading off to the customs line and baggage claim. I was walking to the baggage carousel when I heard footsteps behind me.

“Wait!” Georgia, rolling her suitcase behind her, sprinted toward me. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. “I’ll come with you.”

“I have to go back to work,” I said, checking my phone calendar. My nerves tightened as I thought someone might see us—even though the students were gone, I worried that someone might come back and see us together. “I was just going to drop off my stuff at my apartment before heading to the university for a meeting soon.”

My temples throbbed at the thought of facing the dean, or maybe at the reminder of how little sleep I’d had. Still, the meeting was on my calendar and I unfortunately still had to attend.

“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, come to my place tomorrow morning? We could have brunch.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, and I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” I wish I could have kissed her, or held her hand, but we were still in public. And I was still her teacher.

She nodded. “See you tomorrow, George.”

Chapter Twenty-Six: George Devereaux

As I watched Georgia depart and pulled my suitcase off the baggage carousel, a frisson of anxiety raced through me. I wasn’t sure why I felt that way—perhaps it was the rushed, tense atmosphere of the airport—but as I began rolling my bag toward the customs line, three security officers stopped me.

The burly, black-uniformed men formed a wall in front of me, tanking my hopes of making it to my meeting on time.

“Excuse me, officers,” I said, noting their badges. These weren’t the typical customs officers’ uniforms; there was something different about them. “Could I squeeze by you?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Devereaux,” the one in the middle, who had a patchy, half-grown-in moustache on his upper lip. “You see, we’re taking you in for questioning.”

“Questioning?” My palms grew slick with sweat as they wrapped around the straps of my backpack. “By whom?”

“We’re with the FBI.” The man on the right, a bulky bodybuilder-wannabe with a blond buzzcut, pulled out a badge. He flipped it open long enough for me to discern that he was in fact with the FBI, if what I’d seen in crime shows was to be believed.

“You’ll be coming with us,” said the officer on the left, the shortest of the three—though still only an inch shorter than me—with an incongruous floral tattoo snaking up his neck next to his earpiece.

“Can each of you only speak one sentence at a time?” I said, as sweat pooled around my runners.

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Officer Patchy Moustache said. “We’ve been instructed to take you with us for an interview, Mr. Devereaux. And while we’d like for you to cooperate with us, any resistance will be noted on your file.”

“Ooh, paperwork, spooky,” I muttered under my breath even as my pulse spiked. “Very well, you have my cooperation. Lead me away, officers.”

My heart raced as the officers exchanged looks. One of them moved to stand behind me, the other two flanking me. I wondered if this was how celebrities felt when they had bodyguards. Then again, these men were more of the involuntary bodyguard type. They were probably more likely to snap my neck than to save it.

They led me out of a different exit than the main automatic sliding doors, bypassing the customs line. I adjusted my bags so my backpack was on top of my suitcase, and raked a hand through my hair. “Can I know why I’m being taken in for questioning?”

“Your activities in Italy,” said Officer Blond Buzzcut.

That was vague enough that I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t dare. Finally, they led me through a long, narrow corridor thatbarely seemed big enough for one man to squeeze through—much less three oversized officers and me. We stopped outside a metal, unmarked door. My heart squeezed in my chest. “Please don’t throw me down a flight of stairs.”

Officer Blond Buzzcut gave me a strange look. “We brought you here for questioning, not to hurt you.”

Yetseemed to be implied as the three of them exchanged an inscrutable look.

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