Arthur did not answer immediately.

He let go of my wrist but kept his hand hovering near the phone.

“He is stupid, but he is rarely that direct,” Arthur said.

He picked up my device and swiped the screen.

He entered my passcode as if he had memorized it hours ago.

“The photo was taken from a vehicle,” Arthur said, studying the image of my front door. “A black suburban.”

“Is someone waiting for me?” I asked.

“It belongs to one of my associates,” he said.

My stomach dropped. “Your associates?”

“The ones who no longer report to me,” Arthur said. “The ones Tristan is currently paying.”

He set the phone face down on the polished wood.

The rain cracked against the windowpane behind him.

“They want to scare you,” Arthur said. “And they want to see if you will run to the police.”

“I am not running to the police,” I said.

“Good. Because we have work to do.”

He tapped the paper floor plan of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“The gala is tomorrow night,” Arthur said. “I need six VIP badges. With full security clearance.”