Elena’s POV

The museum smells like stone, dust, and old things that survived longer than most people’s egos. The storm outside makes everything darker, the windows rattling now and then like the building itself is tired of holding us.

I stick close to Layla while we walk, my notebook pressed to my chest like armor. She bumps her shoulder into mine.

“You okay,” she asks quietly.

“I am breathing,” I say. “So yes. Technically.”

She snorts. “That bad.”

“Victoria is in rare ...