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side.
    “The name is French because, when Nicola Vince was visiting France, he was struck with inspiration. He’d actually just come from having wine with a gorgeous, redheaded woman who’s said to be mirrored in the painting. He was there with a cousin, Joseph, who had just met a French woman whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. In fact, Nicola and Joseph were more like brothers than cousins.” My ramble begins, which causes both of them to grin widely. Embarrassed, I slide down in my seat, pull my hair to the side of my face, and mutter, “I’m so sorry.”
    “Don’t be.” The words slide out of Justin’s mouth, and his hand finds mine. With a bit of an attitude, he snaps back at Peter. “Does that answer your question?” Peter taps his thumbs on the edge of the desk. “It informs me that you are the best person for Justin to talk to about this artwork.”
    “I thought you wanted to know about it.” I point at him confused.
    “We both do,” Justin speaks up and clears his throat. “Isn’t the painting at For the Love of Art Museum?”
    “It is. In fact…”
    “Why don’t you two head over there and check it out?” Peter slides a cell phone out of his pocket. “I have to take this. Peyton, it was nice meeting you. Justin, text me later.”
    “Will do.” He salutes his friend as Peter strolls out while already talking on the phone.
    Without thinking, I mumble, “Is he always so self-centered?”
    “Yes,” Justin chuckles, handing me my backpack, “usually more. I’m actually surprised he even took the time to compliment you on your necklace.”
    Strolling over to the door, I roll my eyes. “Wow. Nice guy.”
    “Hey, everyone has at least one friend they aren’t the most proud of,” he states, sliding his hands in his pockets as I shut the door.
    Under my breath, I mumble, “I guess that’s true if you have friends.”
    At the door, I fiddle around in my bag for the keys. Confused as to why they aren’t in my pocket where I usually put them, I open my bag and find them there instead. Why would I have put them there? After locking the door, I follow Justin toward his car for the second day in a row.
    About two steps away from the art building, I see Peter surrounded by girls who are hanging on to his every word. Casually, he wraps his arms across the shoulders of the two closest to him before tossing his head forward in laughter. I watch as he casually kisses one on the cheek before whispering something in the other’s ear and score another chance to glance at his tattoo.
    Justin draws my attention back to him when he asks, “Hey, do you mind if we stop by my locker first?”
    “Sure.” I shrug, following him to the academic building where the lockers are located.
    The two of us arrive in an empty hallway and stroll to his locker, where he puts in his combination. While I was expecting the inside of his locker to resemble him, which it does, with the extra fedoras and his dress jacket (which most guys on campus don’t wear), I wasn’t expecting to see all those art books stacked at the top. “Hey, Justin, why,” is all my mouth gets out before I’m yanked to the ground, barely ducking a bullet, which dents the inside of his locker door.
    There are two figures, once again dressed in black from head to toe, this time both aiming guns at us. Justin pulls my hand, and I follow him rapidly down the hall to avoid the bullets intended to hit us. Unfortunately for us, around the corner is the emergency stairwell, which is always locked unless the alarm is sounded. Terrified by the ricocheting sound, I grip his hand tighter.
    He reassures me in a soft whisper. “It’s going to be okay.”
    I open my mouth to retort, to insist that it’s never going to be okay when someone shoots at you, when he places a finger to his lips.
    Justin patiently waits until one of the figures rounds the corner, gun out in front, which is when he gives the emerging hand a clean chop, knocking out