“What took you so long?” Will asked when Evie came panting into the room. He and Jericho had assembled a stack of books, which they were tucking into Will’s attaché case.
“I walked to Jerusalem for the Bible. I knew you’d want an original,” Evie snapped. “Did you know there’s a door in the floor?”
“Yes,” Will answered.
“Well, where does it go?” Evie asked with irritation.
“There are stairs to a secret cellar and a tunnel. This was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Sojourner Truth herself hid former slaves below,” Will explained. He took the Bible and put it in his case. “It’s probably only home to rats and dust now. Shall we?”
Evie and Jericho waited on the long, wide front steps as Uncle Will locked the museum. The lamps had come on, giving Central Park an eerie glow. Out of the corner of her eye, Evie caught sight of something that drew her gaze back.
“What is it?” Jericho asked. He followed Evie’s gaze into the park.
“I thought I saw someone watching us,” Evie said, scanning the park. She saw nothing there now. “I must’ve been mistaken.”
“It’s been a very long day,” Jericho said gently. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your eyes played tricks on you.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Evie said, but she had the nagging feeling she’d seen Sam Lloyd, of all people. She had a vague impression of him leaning against a tree in that overconfident posture that annoyed her so. But Jericho was right—there was no one there now, only the lamppost and the park.
Sam stayed hidden behind a jagged slope of rock until they were gone. She’d seen him. Just for a second, but it was enough. What was it about that girl that made him lose his street smarts? He’d come to the museum hoping to sweet-talk her into giving him back his jacket, but then he’d seen the detective and decided to return when the museum was empty to steal the jacket—and anything else he might need.
Sam had bided his time in the hustle and bustle of Times Square. He’d spotted his mark in a sailor idling uncertainly on the corner of Broadway and Forty-third Street. The streets had been crowded with people heading home from work. Most pickpockets considered this a good time to ply their trade, when folks were distracted. But Sam had a little something extra on his side: an eerie ability to move among people unnoticed. It wasn’t that he was invisible; more that he could redirect people’s thoughts elsewhere so that their eyes simply didn’t register him. He had only to think, Don’t see me, and the person wouldn’t. He was quick, too, moving with catlike speed. In those moments, all he heard was his own rhythmic breathing as he extricated a wallet from a pocket, snatched a purse from a restaurant table, or stole bread from a store shelf. He didn’t know why it worked, or how—only that it did. It was how he had survived on his own for the past two years.
He had a clear memory of the first time it had happened. He’d been young—ten or eleven, maybe; it was sometime after his mother had left. His father had a watch, which had belonged to Sam’s grandfather. Sam had been told not to touch it, and it was precisely that edict that made the watch so appealing. One day he’d sneaked it out of his father’s drawer and smuggled the treasure in his coat to show the other boys in the schoolyard in the hope that they would understand its value and stop teasing him for his accent, his clothes, his smallness. Instead, they’d ridiculed him. “This? It’s just a cheap watch,” the leader said, and he smashed it on the ground. Sam had been afraid to go home and face his father. As he sat on the sofa waiting, he wished for a place to hide. When his father came home, Sam’s fear was so great that he felt like a small child again, imagining that he could simply close his eyes in a game of hide-and-seek and the other person wouldn’t see him. He heard his father’s footsteps coming closer, heard him calling Sam’s name. Don’t see me, Sam thought. “Don’t see me,” he whispered over and over, like a prayer. And then, oddly, his father looked right at him and kept walking, calling his name as if he were a ghost.
Sam was at a loss to explain it. He remembered something strange his mother had said to him once. They were in the bathroom, and she was cleaning the scrapes he’d gotten after the school bullies chased him home and pushed him down on the street. “Don’t worry, lyubimiy. You have gifts they do not.” “What do you mean?” he’d asked, wincing as she pressed a damp cloth to his scraped chin. “In time, you will see.” In time, he did see, but he wondered if that was what she had meant after all and, if so, how she could have known.
