Chapter 25 Strings
Strings
Penelope shut down her computer with a low curse.
Eighteen hours and twenty-three minutes since she’d left Lucia behind in the Conservation Lab, and she still hadn’t heard from her.
I’ll call you.
When? So far, no word. Not even a text.
Someone had gotten to them, and the Madonna was gone.
But the real issue troubling her was…Lucia.
She’d sounded so flat. So detached.
Lucia’s usual warmth and energy had always come through—even over text. Could this be the real Lucia? Penelope doubted it.
Lucia’s behavior had been consistent: thoughtful, cheeky, nurturing, attentive.
That night had been high stress, but the silence now was suffocating. It had stretched into something heavier, pressing down on her chest.
The house felt too quiet, the ticking grandfather clock suddenly loud, almost intrusive.
But there was nothing she could do. Only wait.
She’d slept fitfully, head filled with dreams of losses, arrests, and hollow ache.
Even though today was Saturday and her day off, she’d tried to distract herself with work. No use. Her mind was shot.
Even Fuller’s snuggles didn’t help.
Their night together had been…wonderful. Ill-advised for many reasons, but Penelope was done pretending this connection between them was a fluke. Done trying to relegate it into something small.
Naturally, that was when all hell would break loose.
She pulled out her father’s notes again—not that she hadn’t been over them a million times before.
After another hour, still nothing. She returned to her computer and her research on Barry Whitfield.
So far:
44, former investment banker.
Art enthusiast.
Worked at The Met as a registrar (without a clear degree).
Now a collections liaison at Belgrave Trust—whatever that meant.
And Belgrave Trust? The deeper she dug, the shadier it got. Valentina had no official role, but Penelope had tied her to two shell companies listed as donors, and to a procurement firm involved in a major acquisition Belgrave had orchestrated.
Add in the (assumed) Madonna theft, and Valentina’s reach seemed bottomless.
Her phone rang. She grabbed it. Her heart dropped—Montgomery, not Lucia.
She straightened. What if they found out about the Madonna?
“Dr. Montgomery, how are you?”
“Fine. I’m so sorry to call you on the weekend, but I’m beyond confused.”
“Oh, no. What’s going on?”
“Ms. Lewis is…displeased about the Madonna situation at the ball.”
Penelope tensed. “I thought you showed it to her?”
“Yes, of course, but it’s not the same, seeing it lying there in a case in the Conservation Lab, is it now?”
“I guess not.”
“Anyway, she’s one of our biggest donors, and apparently she wanted to show it to her fiancé. Some romantic story about Italy—I only caught half—but now she’s making a big deal out of it.”
“OK, but what were we supposed to do, given the humidity spike?”
“That’s the thing. I promised her a private showing once the humidity issue was resolved. And when I checked the logs to give her a time frame, the issue had already been fixed. Here’s the weirdest part…”
Montgomery’s voice dropped. “I reviewed the HVAC logs. There was no maintenance, nothing. The humidity spiked for six hours, just enough to pull the Madonna—then corrected itself. No adjustments. No requests. It fixed itself. Like magic.”
“That is odd.”
“Lewis also mentioned other promised private night viewings. Like this was a series.”
“What series?”
“Exactly! I’ve checked every record. No such session ever existed. Yet she swears someone at the Meridian promised them.”
“Who could even make such promises?”
“That’s the question,” Montgomery said.
“I hadn’t worked with director Allen for long, but she was by the book. If these viewings were discussed, there should be a record.”
“I agree. That’s why it’s so mystifying.”
Unless you know what actually happened.
After the call, Penelope revisited her notes on the Madonna. The discrepancy she’d flagged months ago had haunted her ever since. She’d told herself to wait. To see where it would lead.
It had led here.
A criminal conspiracy. With her in the middle.
She tried not to think how deep into this she’d gone.
Fraud, theft, cover-ups.
All in the name of justice, retribution? Did that make it better?
If she lingered on that, she’d cease to function. And then all of it—her father, everything she’d done—would be for nothing.
She had to see it through.
Penelope needed the world to see Valentina for what she really was.
She leaned back, rubbing her eyes, and went over the provenance records again. The dates were off, but, back then, the names hadn’t meant anything.
Now, after Tim’s update the other day, the pattern was clear: Belgrave Trust kept appearing at the perfect moment—bridging gaps in provenance just long enough to sanitize shady ownership.
Always tidy. Always just enough.
Too perfect to be chance. Too consistent to be clean.
And there—Barry Whitfield’s signature, bold and undeniable, on the forged provenance papers that had placed the Madonna in the Meridian.
She’d seen it before, had skimmed right over it when it had meant nothing beyond a possible connection to Belgrave.
Now it blared like a siren. How did it take her so long to tie this together?
Whitfield hadn’t just been adjacent. He’d signed the paperwork.
This was no loose operation. It was a well-oiled machine. And Penelope, by choice or not, was already entangled.
Francesca had shown her what remained of the records: the Madonna had once belonged to her family—until Valentina stole it.
But how had Valentina gotten access? Surely, Francesca hadn’t stored the painting and the documentation in the same place.
This was more than a burglary.
Especially since Valentina hadn’t loaned the painting until last year. What had she done with it in all these years? Hung it up in her study and gloated?
A breeze drifted through the half-open window, fluttering one of her papers to the floor. She didn’t pick it up.
Nothing about this timeline made sense. Maybe it was about infrastructure. Timing. Or maybe it was personal.
Or maybe it had never been just about the painting.
Penelope’s fingers drummed on the desk.
Fuller jumped into her lap.
“Hey, girl. What are we going to do, hmm?” She stroked her soft fur, letting the purring soothe her.
There was something Francesca hadn’t told her. Why was the Madonna stolen in the first place?
Next time, Penelope would demand real answers.
Maybe the Collective knew Whitfield. Belgrave Trust couldn’t possibly be news to them, considering it looked like a criminal mirror of Francesca’s own Collective.
A group Francesca had pulled Lucia into.
Lucia—an adult with free will.
Not back then. Not when she’d been a teen lost on the street.
Penelope pulled out the little sketch Lucia had doodled—Penelope playing with Fuller. Lucia had wanted to throw it out. Penelope had snatched it, aghast.
It was ridiculous. Cartoonish. Fuller looked alive, chasing a string.
God, this was driving her mad.
She checked her watch: 5:38 p.m.
And despite all her adult free will, Lucia still hadn’t contacted her.
She checked her voicemails, hovered over one she’d saved the week before. Against her better judgment, she hit play.
“Since you still can’t be trusted to eat enough or, better, to take your time during lunch, I’ll stop by tomorrow again. This time, we’re going out and getting lunch together. No argument, Dr. Blackwell.”
Lucia’s voice filled the room.
Penelope closed her eyes. Her chest tightened.
She cleared her throat.
She typed: Are you OK?
Deleted it.
Can we talk?
Deleted.
I’m here if you want to talk.
“She knows that,” Penelope muttered, and deleted that, too.
“Don’t be a fool. You don’t know what’s going on.” She paused. “Maybe it was just fun for her.”
But what if something had happened? Was Lucia injured or in danger?
Her throat ached suddenly, raw from holding her breath. She inhaled deeply.
Fuller meowed.
“Sorry, girl.” Penelope scratched her face, smiling when Fuller nuzzled her hand. “I’m being silly. I must be, because the alternatives are…daunting.”