Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Knew Too Much
My mother had always been a mystery in my family.
Not because she was secretive.
Because my father hated talking about her after she died.
She had been an art restorer.
Brilliant.
Precise.
Patient.
She could identify a painter's work by a single stroke.
When I was a child, she taught me how to hold a magnifying glass.
“Never trust what you're told about an object,” she used to say.
“Look at what it tells you.”
I had not understood the lesson then.
Now I did.
Anthony took me to an old museum warehouse.
My mother's work had been stored there before her death.
Boxes covered the walls.
He handed me gloves.
“Find anything with her name.”
I worked for hours.
Then I found a folder.
Sarah Evans.
Inside were restoration reports.
Invoices.
Photographs.
And one letter.
To Evelyn Vieri.
My mother's handwriting.
I read it.
I believe the paintings are being replaced before shipment.
I believe someone inside the organization has access to the storage facility.
I have found evidence of deliberate forgery.
The signature was enough to make Anthony stop breathing.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I kept reading.
Your son should not trust the people around him.
Anthony read it over my shoulder.
“My mother knew you.”
“Yes.”
“She warned her about someone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
A second page was missing.
Anthony cursed.
Then footsteps sounded.
We turned.
A man entered.
“Mr. Ravalini.”
Anthony stared.
“Who sent you?”
“Private investigator.”
“Name.”
“Jonathan Pierce.”
Anthony relaxed slightly.
But I noticed something.
Jonathan's shoes had museum dust on them.
The warehouse had been closed for years.
Nobody should have that dust on their shoes.
I whispered,
“Anthony.”
He looked at me.
I pointed subtly.
Jonathan saw.
He drew a gun.
Anthony moved faster.
The shot hit the wall.
Security rushed in.
Jonathan escaped through a side door.
Anthony turned to me.
“How did you know?”
“The dust.”
He stared.
I laughed nervously.
“My mother would be proud.”
“She already is.”
I looked at him.
He hadn't meant to say it.
He looked away.
The moment passed.
That night, Anthony found me in the library.
“You don't need to stay here.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You can leave tomorrow.”
I stared.
“But the thirty days.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because this is dangerous.”
I smiled.
“So now you care?”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
The honesty caught me off guard.
“You're dangerous too.”
“I know.”
“People are afraid of you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because fear is efficient.”
“And what are you afraid of?”
He looked away.
“You.”
My heart skipped.
“What?”
“Losing control around you.”
Silence.
I looked down.
“We shouldn't.”
“I know.”
“I'm your debtor.”
“No.”
“You said—”
“I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“Thinking you were something I owned.”
He stepped closer.
“You are not.”
Then he walked away.
I couldn't stop thinking about those words.
The next morning, I received a package.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother.
Evelyn Vieri.
And another woman.
The woman was smiling.
Anthony entered.
He saw it.
His expression changed.
“That’s my mother.”
I looked at the photograph.
Then at the other woman.
“That's my mother.”
Both women were standing beside a painting.
The same painting that had been forged in Anthony's gallery.
Anthony took the photograph.
“Where was this taken?”
I read the back.
“Florence.”
“Year?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
He stared.
“That was when my grandmother started suspecting the collection was compromised.”
“And my mother was helping her.”
“Yes.”
I pointed to the painting.
“What if the original wasn't stolen?”
Anthony looked at me.
“What?”
“What if it was deliberately removed?”
“Why?”
“To hide something behind it.”
He stared at the photograph.
Then smiled.
“You just solved the first real piece of this.”
We returned to the gallery.
The forged painting was removed from the wall.
Behind it was a hidden compartment.
Inside was a letter.
Anthony opened it.
The first line made him go pale.
If Thomas Evans ever tries to contact you, do not trust him.
I stared.
“My father.”
The letter continued.
He is already working with Elias Moretti.
My father.
Anthony looked at me.
My whole body went cold.
“How long?”
“Years.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He couldn't.”
Anthony handed me the letter.
I read the final line.
May you like
He will sacrifice his daughter to save himself.
He already has.
