Dark Museum

What if you awoke in an eerie art museum without knowing how you and four others arrived?

What if those four comprised a musician you had the hots for, a movie star, an office worker, and someone you knew nothing about, all of whom remembered the same woman right before finding themselves there?

What if that museum had no easily discernible exits, no means for contacting anyone on the outside, but still had operating internal surveillance?

For Sophia Stewart the real nightmare doesn’t begin until she escapes.

also by Melanie Surani

The Silent Treatment

The Morning After

Closing Shift

Nowhere/Anywhere

thank you

to my Patrons Logospilgrim and Jana for the coffee money to keep me going through the edits.

Logospilgrim is an author and can be found here: logospilgrim.com

Jana is a musician and can be found here: janajanamusic.com

For sneak peeks and other exclusive offers, please consider becoming a Patron at patreon.com/melsurani.

Thank you also to Joshua, Tony, Alia, The Lisas, Diane, and everyone at Scribophile.com for beta reading this novel without tearing me a new one. Mostly, anyway. Thanks also to the crew at Booktrope for getting this book into shape the first go around. Sorry it didn't work out.

Thank you to Garrett Misener for his service in the Marines and for being a great cousin. He teased me and our respective sisters, played with me in a band back in the 90s, and taught me that Facebook is the worst vehicle for bad news. I hope you don't mind me imagining your future in Search and Rescue.

I farmed all medical and police research from the internet and interviews with people in those professions. Many thanks for their help. Please excuse any artistic liberties and enjoy the story.

For Nizzar.

You wanted to be in the book.

1 | Friday, November 24, 1989

Blair didn't go to the theater to watch opera but to kidnap Sophia Stewart. The balcony sloped to give each ticket holder the best seat in the house, although the view from the nosebleeds wasn't worth the twenty dollars she paid. It didn't matter.

The house lights dimmed and rose again, signaling the audience to settle.

Sophia, the target, smoothed her sequined sheath dress as she sat. A peacock feather pinned her loose brown waves over one ear.

Beside her: an empty seat.

Waiting for a date? Blair thought. Two for one if he's hot.

Despite the theater-goers taking the concert as an opportunity to wear their Sunday Best, Blair hadn't dressed for a fancy night. She hadn't been to an opera or symphony or whatever Classical All-Stars was in her life. When attending exhibit openings in the museum where she worked, the same black shirt and pants combo she wore tonight sufficed.

But among the florals and pant-suits, Sophia's purple sequined dress was sure to create countless memories.

Need help finding your way? An elderly usher smiled at Blair. Show me your ticket.

Blair handed him the stub she'd mangled in her sweaty palm. The usher eyeballed it through reading glasses and checked the numbers on the armrests beside him. Oh! This is your row here, he said. If it was a snake, it woulda bit ya.

Blair smiled dutifully.

The empty seat next to Sophia belonged to Blair. She hadn't expected to get near her object short of trailing; now she'd spend the next two hours trying not to engage in small talk.

Blair squeezed and sorry'd and sat beside Sophia. The fuzzy upholstery made her shirt crawl up. Her knees bumped the seat in front.

She's the worst employee of my entire career, her brother David had said on the phone earlier that evening without bothering to open with a greeting.

Well hello, Blair said, turning the TV down a notch, still paying it more attention than she did the call. She'd been eating chips out of the bag on her bed since her roommate wasn't home to stop her. Cockroaches.

Everyone knows it's Cap Season, he said. Everyone stays late at the office. It's not a whim I pulled out of my ass tonight.

Who crawled up your butt, David? Mouth open while she chewed.

Your girl crush, Sophia.

Who? But wait: super cute woman at David's annual summer office barbecue five months prior. Asian somewhere in her bloodline. Blair might have asked too many questions about her that day. She's not a crush. Good God.

Bull shit.

So what? She left at quitting time and ...? A glance at the alarm clock showed 6:30 pm. How late do your minions hang around, anyway?

The better ones? Midnight.

Midnight? Blair abandoned the chips.

Come on, I've seen you work till the wee hours on a project.

That's art, David. It's love. Not some arbitrary goal shoved down my throat by a corporate bigwig.

I'm a corporate bigwig?

She watched her show.

Do you even know what Cap Season is?

I could give a fuck, David.

It's where we prep H1B visa applications for skilled people looking for work in the US. The government only takes so many every year. We have to submit everything on opening day for these people to have a chance. And it's 'I couldn't give a fuck.'

Blair sighed.

So if helping immigrants reduces me to big-wiggery—

Why are you calling me?

Sophia.

Fire her already. What's it got to do with me?

He hesitated. I know what happened with Kieron.

Blair killed the TV. Her mouth dried out too much to speak. Starchy lumps of chips stuck in her molars.

Don't worry, David continued. I haven't told anyone and I won't. But listen, I figure we help each other out tonight.

W-what?

David sighed. Forgive me if I don't spell it out for you, but I can tell you where she is and you can follow through in your own sweet way. All right? Do you have any of those roofies left?

How do you even know where—?

Because she requested time off to go to a concert tonight. I denied her request because of the aforementioned mandatory overtime. She left early anyway. Thought she was slick, but I'm not stupid. Are you interested? You'd be doing me a favor. I'm not authorized to fire anyone until Cap Season is over, but I'd honestly be better off short-staffed than having to correct all her cases.

Even as the house lights in the theater dimmed, blanketing the audience in inky darkness, Blair hadn't come up with a plan to steal Sophia.

Sophia smiled, residual light from the tracks in the aisles glinting off her eyes and teeth. It's so small! she said. Her knees brushed the back of the next seat too.

Blair managed a quick glance at her and directed her eyes back toward the rising curtain. If her career hadn't been tanking, Blair would have told David to fuck himself and hung up on him. But she needed this.

Music flared in the orchestra pit. Sophia flashed another smile Blair's way, applauding.

Blair clapped to fit in.

Intermission wouldn't work. Too many people in the building and too little time. Women from the entire building would swarm the ladies room. The only viable way to kidnap Sophia would be to approach her outside the theater and ask for directions. Anyone in New York City had the wherewithal to pull off the clueless tourist ruse.

Then what?

Blair wanted to go home. Rethink. There had to be a better way to help her career than a heinous crime. She'd known Kieron didn't have family in town or close friends. She hadn't meant to do what she'd done to him.

The only thing Blair knew about Sophia was that she sucked at her job.

Blair stood, her nerve loosening like her bowels.

Oh. Sophia smooshed herself back to let Blair pass.

Blair hurried out of the auditorium, closing herself in the ladies room stall she'd occupy for the rest of the program.

2

The lobby sprawled in length and height. Bucolic murals, gold accents, and a half-ton crystal chandelier created a bougie scene Blair was sorry to be a part of. Fresh coffee and cocktail sausages wafting their beckoning fingers were the only real attraction.

Sophia's sequins twinkled in the swirling crowd, a buffet plate in one hand, a champagne flute in the other.

Shit, Blair whispered and checked her watch. Ten. Tack on time for eating and socializing. Things might go down around eleven.

A waiter with a tray of champagne paused beside her.

What the hell, Blair said, taking one.

Sophia was also enjoying a beverage.

Blair dug through her purse and pulled out a travel tube marked aspirin. Inside, a single pill rolled along the bottom, which she dumped into her hand.

Rohypnol.

She struggled to close her purse with the pill in her clammy fist. After pushing through the crowd to Sophia's tabled glass, Blair dropped the pill in the fizzy drink. Retreating to the wall, she wiped the powder residue from her sweaty hand on her pants.

Sophia picked up the glass, oblivious.

After ten minutes Sophia was still on her feet, swirling the champagne without drinking it. She nibbled food and flirted with a man wearing all black. They set their glasses next to each other's. Though their words melted in the din, their body language hinted at recognition, commonality, attraction.

The man accidentally chose the spiked drink and downed the whole thing.

Fuck, Blair whispered.

For a few minutes, nothing happened. Sophia laughed, touching the guy's arm. The drug worked his eyes to curved slits, and he burst out a guffaw. Glances from those nearby caused Sophia and the musician to cover their mouths in amused embarrassment. He pulled his tie, made a motion to take his jacket off, but didn't. She shimmied to make her dress twinkle. He cocked an eyebrow and threw open his top two shirt buttons, but stumbled and fell on his behind. They giggled again.

Blair rolled her eyes and pushed toward the exit.

Somebody! Sophia's panicked voice rose above the conversations. Somebody help!

After one more shuffle-step toward the door, Blair stopped with an idea. She pushed to where Sophia knelt over the man's prone body, rubbing his back, trying to coax words from him.

What happened? Blair asked.

The other guests kept a cautious distance. One glanced at Blair with a shake of his head. We're calling an ambulance to be safe. Probably just one too many.

Sophia's eyes widened in recognition when she saw Blair. Hey!

What's going on? Did he drink too much? Blair's heart pounded. She'd never tried acting, and it felt wrong now.

Broken glass and champagne speckled the waxed parquet floor, weaving a sweet, alcohol smell in the area. The singer's eyes were closed, but remnants of laughter played on his lips.

I don't know, Sophia said. I mean, I only saw him drink one glass. She swept the broken champagne flute away with her hand.

A woman from the crowd knelt with a cocktail napkin. Honey, don't do that. Look at yourself.

Sophia's hand was bleeding. She pulled away. Oh no.

The woman gingerly wrapped the glass in the napkin and took it away.

It's not bad, is it? Blair asked.

Sophia wiped away the blood. It's fine. She shook the man again by the shoulder. He woke with a start.

I can't believe how stupid he's being, Blair said.

You know him? Sophia asked.

He's my brother, Blair lied. All that classy music, but he can't hold his alcohol for shit. He's got an allergy and he knows better. She didn't even know if people could get an allergy to alcohol, or if this was how it would manifest, but no one challenged her.

Sophia picked a piece of glass from his curls as he dozed again.

Blair leaned toward Sophia and lowered her voice. Help me get him to my car?

inside

1 | Josh | Earlier that evening

With a bang of the dressing room door, she entered. Erica loved entering with a bang.

Like the other musicians warming up in the tiny backstage room, Erica wore black. Half of her auburn hair piled on her head, half spiraled around her shoulders. Blood dribbled from her lips to her chin.

She stumbled, dropped to her knees and gurgled.

The scales and conversations stopped in momentary shock, but for all her bravado, Erica wasn't a good actress. She milked it a moment, clutching her throat, but caught the giggles and spat red on the tile floor.

You should see your faces, she said, pulling a napkin from her cleavage.

Everyone rolled their collective eyes and went back to business. One of them asked where she found the blood pack, others tittered about what a little fright they got.

Joshua Rossi, in the far corner of the room, fumbled his violin.

He'd avoided Erica all day, catching only glimpses of her at the theater. After embarrassing himself in front of her the other night, naturally, she finished like this.

As he steadied himself on the nearest table, he bumped a young singer. At thirteen, she was the baby on the bill, and still giggling at Erica.

Hey Josh, you got this? the girl asked. She bent to retrieve the rolling tube of lip balm he'd knocked from her hand and hooked his drooping bow. Why don't you put that down?

Rossi, you're on in five, the stage manager bellowed into the room. Good God, what happened in here?

Erica continued wiping her mouth. Sorry.

The manager took a second to digest the scene and said, You're grown-ass adults. Rossi!

Josh opened his eyes and unstuck his forehead from his fist.

Someone gave him a cursory back rub. Relax. It's fake.

Josh swiped his bow from the thirteen-year-old and shouldered through the room.

Erica stifled a laugh and said, Break a leg.

Josh glared at her as the stage manager pulled him into the beige, cement brick hallway.

Why are you pale? You sick?

I'm fine.

The manager checked his watch. Four minutes.

Yup.

The bricks shifted from beige to black as Josh progressed toward the stage, avoiding eye contact with those scrambling to maintain the show in progress. Along with the black walls, darkness took over. Backdrop panels and lighting trees from previous shows created an obstacle course Josh hadn't memorized. He followed the music and ambient light from the stage.

Josh, you next? Anthony, Josh's roommate until two weeks ago, approached, carrying the cello that made him famous. Whoa! What's up?

Nothing. Nothing. He passed a hand over his mouth. Is it so noticeable?

Like a sheet. Can you go on? I mean, are you—

Yeah. It's fine.

What happened?

Erica. Just ... Erica.

Anthony grimaced. Ah, you found out.

The audience applauded, and the singer on stage bowed.

Found out what? Josh asked while Anthony said, I'm sure it's not even true.

The singer walked off stage past Josh. Go! she hissed.

Without introduction, and trying not to give any more mind to Anthony or Erica —

Found out what?

— Josh took center stage amid a round of applause. With a lift of his bow, the audience quieted. He put his lips to the microphone and the violin under his chin. Though hundreds of people sat before him in the cavernous theater, when Joshua Rossi closed his eyes, the place emptied.

He took a deep breath and struck the first note.

2

I'm sure it's not even true.

Anthony's words thundered back the second Joshua left the stage. Though Anthony hadn't been in the rehearsal room when Erica pulled her blood capsule stunt, he knew something. Erica said something to him; probably to everyone.

Backstage buzzed with activity as most of the performers finished. Josh focused on tucking his violin in its case and into the locker.

Something about him. Something embarrassing.

At least someone wiped up the blood.

He shut the locker and pocketed the key.

If he didn't have to use the men's room, he would have bolted home. No final curtain bow. No meet and greet with the ticket holders. No Erica. Just a delivered pizza, a beer, and a who-am-I-kidding look at his empty life.

Though backstage provided one unisex facility, Josh opted for the solitude of the public men's room before the audience mobbed it. Leaked music from the stage to the corridors gave the theater a false sense of peace and emptiness. The front of house restroom boasted a fresh-smelling luxury the tiny toilet-cum-storage room couldn't offer.

Before pushing through the door, Erica and another female musician appeared at the end of the carpeted hall. Spying Josh, Erica whispered to her companion, whose brow furrowed.

Aww, she replied. That's so catty. As they rounded the corner out of sight, she continued, wait, how do you know?

Josh entered the men's room.

He'd barely started peeing when Anthony entered and joined him at the neighboring urinal.

Josh sighed. Even friends needed a one-urinal buffer. How're those nuptials treating you?

You must have pissed her off, Anthony replied, ignoring the question.

Josh zipped. Is she telling people I'm gay or something? We already did that.

Impotent.

Josh shut his eyes. There's no way — Even if it were true, there's no way she could know.

Anthony shrugged, keeping his eyes on his business.

Josh leaned against the counter. That doesn't explain ... He washed his hands.

If that's not what you found out about, what the hell happened before you went on?

She bit a blood capsule in the dressing room.

Anthony was silent a second. Ohh yeah. He chose the adjacent sink. Wait, was she even there when you ...?

Yeah.

Shit.

Josh yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, giving his hands a perfunctory wipe before balling it into the trash. Two years prior, when Josh, Anthony, and Erica had been involved in an opera together, Anthony had cut his hand on a piece of equipment backstage. The injury wasn't serious but bled a lot. When Josh stood to get a first aid kit, he fainted, and Erica never let him forget.

I asked her to dinner, that's all.

Yeah, she said the two of you went to a swanky restaurant where she fondled you under the table and you cried and left her with the check. Anthony turned off the tap. About which she said — and I quote — 'I spend less on rent.'

Josh shook his head and left the room.

Anthony followed him into the filling corridor. The show had ended.

Are you not answering because it's ludicrous or because you don't want to admit it? If it's true, the blood capsule was a brilliant way of getting back at you.

Josh whipped around. She turned me down, he shouted.

Several people stared.

Anthony nudged him toward the lobby.

We never went to dinner, Josh continued, checking his volume. When I asked her to go with me, she said, 'Josh, honey,' and laughed as though the idea of being seen with me... You were right. I shouldn't have tried.

Anthony shook his head. I wouldn't take it personally. I haven't known her to be friendly with anyone more than a week before starting her usual drama. He paused, averting his eyes. Remember a few months ago she and Stephanie were tight, but then Erica left ransom notes about her?

$50 Million or Stephanie Rey gets it. The flyers with newspaper cutout letters were tacky at best, dangerous at worst. Stephanie found out Erica left the notes and cried until Erica convinced her it was all done in love. Everybody's thinking about you now, Erica had said in consolation. And in this industry, all you need is attention. Good or bad.

I remember.

Anthony reached into his front pocket and handed a folded sheet of paper to Josh. A cutout letter floated to the ground.

$50mil or Joshua R ssi dies

Josh backed against the wall. The glittering I at the end of his name was cut from the Christmas card he'd sent Erica the week before.

Listen, Anthony said, This is what she does to people. She's pulling your pigtails. I don't even think it's personal, you just got on her radar. He paused. I gotta wonder, though, why do you like her?

Josh folded the flyer and tucked it in his pocket. Well, she's hot and insanely talented. But I've seen a different side of her than all this.

Anthony leaned beside him on the wall, watching the crowd funnel onto the staircase. She pet a puppy or something?

Josh rubbed his neck. "I never told you about this because ... The night you moved out, I was feeling sorry for myself. We had a show in Boston and she made fun of me for being