[Jake's POV continued]
Richard Bellamy moved fast for a man who probably believed exercise was something poor people did because they could not afford private drivers. He slipped through the corridor beside the east gallery with his phone pressed to his ear, his shoulders stiff beneath his tailored navy suit. He did not look back. That was his first mistake. Men who believed they were being hunted always looked back. Men who believed they were escaping consequences kept their eyes forward.
I followed at a steady pace, keeping enough distance between us that the museum staff would not immediately notice the chase. Around us, the Harrington Museum continued pretending to be civilized. Elderly donors studied paintings they did not understand. Waiters moved with silver trays. A curator with wire-framed glasses explained a marble bust to a woman who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. Nobody screamed. Nobody ran. That made the whole thing feel more dangerous.
