Now he was a ghost in it.

The gallery was surrounded by paparazzi and security guards in black suits.

The flashbulbs of the cameras reflected off the wet pavement like tiny explosions.

We bypassed the main queue and headed for the service entrance around the back.

The door was marked with a gold plaque for staff only.

A young guard stood under the awning, shivering in his coat.

“Deliveries are in the morning,” he said, barely looking up from his clipboard.

“I am here to check the security feeds for the Crane exhibit,” I said.

I showed him a forged ID badge I had printed in the safehouse.

He glanced at the card, then at Alexander’s tailored tuxedo.

“And him?”

“My supervisor,” I said.

The guard sighed and tapped his security pass against the reader.

The lock clicked.

“Make it quick,” he said. “The VIPs are already arriving.”

We walked inside.

The corridor was quiet, lined with white walls and wooden crates.

“That was too easy,” Alexander whispered.

“The easy part is over,” I said.

We moved down the hall toward the basement stairwell.