He did.

The first time it happened, I was eight.

I’d always had the tendency to disappear. I never stood still, forever on the go.

Mom called me Houdini because I used to vanish from her sight everywhere we went—parks, malls, country clubs, restaurants, SeaWorld, Disneyland. She’d clutch my palm, nearly crushing my bones to dust, muttering about how the things we loved the most were often so slippery and hard to keep safe.

She called me her little explorer, said I’d turn her hair gray, but I was worth it. The world felt like a swollen piñata full of shit I wanted to touch and smear and eat.

That day, though, I should’ve stuck to my parents’ side.

We were at an exhibition in Paris. The gallery had a fancy, five-word name I couldn’t remember, let alone pronounce. There were a handful of children in the gallery, all of them glued to severe-looking au pairs with dark circles around their eyes. There had been a public auction for some rad-ass art pieces collectors and curators had been frothing at the mouth for. Problem was, it was stuck smack in the middle of summer vacation. My mother had been very keen on coming back home with something new for her gallery, so she’d dragged Dad and me along.

We’d go with her to hell, if need be, sans sunscreen.

Back then, I had a nanny whose job was to keep me alive and within reach. I hardly spent any time with Maggie, and when I did, it was for the odd hour here and there, when Mom needed to do something—like participate in this auction. Maggie, a fifty-five-year-old grandma who resembled Lady Tremaine of Cinderella, took me to the downstairs restaurant at the gallery and bought me a healthy pastry that tasted like wood and a carton of organic, sugar-and-taste-free chocolate milk.

The gallery was big and full of rooms I was itching to explore. I deliberately squeezed the chocolate milk against my white shirt, creating a stain the size of Texas.

“Shoot,” I said wryly, squeezing the rest of the liquid onto my hands. Sticky fingertips were my favorite.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. Stay here.” She got up, patting my knee. “I’m just going to grab some napkins, okay?”

“Sure.”

The minute she turned around and made her way the counter, I jumped off the chair and raced into the nearest open room across the corridor. It was big, white, and cold—full of mammoth sculptures lurking like monsters. Their stones were dry and comforting. I touched one of them, relishing its texture. The still, human-like statues reminded me so much of death, and death fascinated me, because it was stronger than me. Even my dad.

I didn’t think anything could be stronger than my parents.

I strode easily, fingering, touching, brushing my nails against the expensive pieces, eager to make a dent. I could hear the echo of Maggie’s voice carrying into the open room as she searched for me, her footsteps fast and hysterical. A twinge of sorrow pinched my heart, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. I figured I’d get out of here before my parents were done and return to her, like I had so many times before.

No one had to know.

There was one sculpture in particular that held my attention in a vise. I ran a hand over its face and for the first time, shivered with excitement. It was brutally beautiful. Bold, menacing, yet tranquil. The sign underneath it said, Tutankhamun’s Death Mask by Edgar Astalis. It looked back at me with a hint of a smile.

I smiled back.

“You know,” a voice boomed behind me. English accent. Male. Old, at least in the ears of an eight year old.

I didn’t turn around. I hated giving people the satisfaction of getting the reaction they wanted from me. In this case, surprise.

“This is one of the pharaohs of ancient Egypt. He died at the tender age of nineteen.”

No one had ever spoken to me about death before, and I wanted to gut the subject open, let every secret and fact gush out. Where did we go afterward? Did it hurt? When did it happen? Could moms die, too? I knew Knight’s mom, Auntie Rosie, was always sick. I couldn’t imagine my life without my parents, but I knew death grabbed everyone by the throat eventually. Some part of me wanted to look it in the eye and spit in its face.

Later, it’d earn me the title of daredevil—a rash, bold, careless bully.

I remained silent, my back to the stranger, but I heard his voice getting closer, his shoes clicking on the granite floor with ease and confidence.

“They made him a golden veneer called the Death Mask and installed it on his head before burial. The original mask consists of hundreds of sheets of gold and was made in less than ninety days. Its creation is so miraculous and outstanding in the art world, some believe the Death Mask wasn’t meant for Tutankhamun at all.”

I didn’t know why he was telling me this. He sounded smart. Not as cold and intimidating as my dad. Not that my dad was like that to me, but I knew he scared some people, and I could see why.

Fear equaled limitation. Restraining people, controlling them, appealed to me. There was wild, raw power in it. Infinite possibility.

“What’s your name?” The man was now standing next to me, his hands laced behind his back, both of us watching the statue.

“Vaughn,” I said.

Vaughn meant junior, or younger in Welsh. Mom said when she first held me after I was born, I was the spitting image of my father. So shockingly similar, her heart almost cracked and burst with love.

She’d also warned me not to talk to strangers, let alone give them my personal details, but I wasn’t scared. The man looked harmless: tall, thin as a shoelace, and soft-spoken. He wore an eccentric suit—green on yellow, I remember.

“I’m Harry. Do you know what mummies are, Vaughn?”

“’Course.” I scoffed, running my finger along the statue’s nose. “Tutankhamun was mummified, right? Because he was Egyptian.”

“Smart kid.”

Couldn’t dispute the obvious, so I shrugged.

“But there was something very different about the way they mummified Tutankhamun. He was the only mummy ever found who didn’t have a heart. The Egyptians never removed the heart when they buried their royals. But they did with him.”

Looking back, I could see how inappropriate the conversation was—talking about death, the removal of inner organs, and the mummification of bodies. However, I’d been fascinated. He’d told me more about the real Tutankhamun, and I’d gulped the information thirstily, struggling to keep my face bored and expressionless.

It was only when he took his first breath that I realized he was standing far too close to me, that with every fact he’d volunteered about the young prince, he’d taken a step toward me. His thigh was now pressed against my arm. I took a step back, squinting at him.

“Personal space here,” I quipped.

His face opened with surprise. People weren’t used to sarcasm from kids my age.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, moving away.

“I want to be mummified without a heart.” I pointed at the sculpture, changing the subject.

“At nineteen?” He looked down at me, smirking.

He seemed entertained by me, which was unusual. People typically said I was mouthy and had an unruly streak.

I shrugged. Sure. Nineteen seemed centuries away.

“What about your parents? They’d be sad if you died so young.”