34. Alma
Alma
“Grams, I’m confused. Are you sure?”
Of course she is. My sweet granddaughter always tries to make sense of things. I know my mind wanders. Things slip. The past shows up when it shouldn’t, and the present doesn’t always stay put.
But this… this is clear.
“I know you think I’m crazy.”
“No, I don’t.” Her voice is gentle and careful, too careful. “Do you get things mixed up sometimes? Yes. But that doesn’t mean this is. Tell me what you remember. Maybe we can figure it out together.”
“Okay.” I close my eyes, letting my thoughts go back to the night—the one that has never truly left me.
Whenever I’m in my gallery, everything else seems to drift away. The parts of the world I can’t quite hold onto… they’re quiet here. That’s why I spend so much time inside.
Within these walls, it’s just me and my art. Nothing else demands my attention. Nothing slips.
This is the legacy of my life’s work.
Each painting carries a story. How it found its way here, why it belongs. Some of those stories feel just out of reach, like I should remember but can’t quite grasp the details. Others… I remember well.
If my granddaughter knew the truth behind what hangs on these walls, she would look at me differently. That’s why Rico and I agreed she should stay in Hermosa Islas with her adopted family. It was safer. For her. For us. We had to keep some things hidden, otherwise, everything would have unraveled.
That’s the price one must pay when living a life where danger lurks around every corner.
I am a notorious art thief—or I used to be.
No one has ever proven that. No one ever will.
Everything displayed in here has been bought and paid for—on paper, at least. A few simply came into my possession… earlier than they should have. I was careful. Kept my collection private for years.
It wasn’t until my granddaughter persuaded me to allow her new sister-in-law, Larkin, a glimpse inside that I invited someone to admire my collection.
A few pieces had to be removed. Their lingering status as stolen art forced my hand. Removing them from those lists is never simple. It’s a lengthy process. It demands patience, a substantial amount of money, and the skill of persuasion for those who need urging.
The gallery is my sanctuary. When I’m alone, I prefer the dark. The only light comes from the special lamps above each piece, casting a glow to reveal what others might miss. Imperfections. Truths. The best way to appreciate the authentic from the counterfeit.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here. I must have dozed off. Nothing new. I do it all the time.
The blanket shifts as I pull it to cover my legs, and something feels… off.
I’m not alone.
There’s a man standing on the other side of the room. His back is to me. He’s dressed entirely in black. A mask discarded on the floor beside him. It’s next to a tool bag he’s rifling through with precise focus.
Another man joins him moments later. Older. There is something familiar in their movements, something shared. I can’t place it, but I know it matters.
I stay still. They haven’t noticed me, and I don’t want them to.
“We don’t need to take all of them, just enough to convince the coppers that this was a robbery gone wrong,” the older one says. “Need a hand with that?”
“Probably. I think I’ve removed all the anchors.” The younger one straightens and turns to the side. “Grab that side and be careful. This one’s worth more than your car.”
“My car?” The older man steps back, frowning as he studies it. “You’re joking. Looks like something your sister’s kid painted.”
The younger man lets out a quiet laugh. “It’s a Picasso, Uncle Drake. And people pay millions to own one of his paintings.”
“I don’t get it.” Drake shakes his head, unconvinced, then retakes his place next to the Picasso. Together, they lift the frame.
I watch them, confused for a moment.
The Picasso. A painting I pilfered from a wealthy collector, after he refused to sell it to me, is now carefully being deposited into a wooden box.
Why take that one?
“You finish up here. I need to make this look like Trent’s finally lost patience with Rico and handled it himself. Load that into the lift and take it down to the van. When you’re back, we’ll smash a few things and set the fires. You did your thing, right?”
“Did that first.” The young one secures the wooden lid with gentle taps of the hammer. “Isabel won’t wake up until we’re long gone. If she wakes at all.”
My hand clamps over my mouth before any sound sneaks out.
What has he done to my dear, sweet granddaughter?
“I knew I could count on you, Quentin. You really should reconsider joining me once I take over.”
Quentin shrugs. “She should’ve picked me over that fucker she ran off with in the club.”
His uncle smacks him on the back. “No one fucks over a Drake and gets away with it. Not even a pretty little cunt like her.”
“Damn straight,” the young man says, following his uncle out. The door closes hard behind them, the sound echoing through the gallery.
For a moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Then it all rushes back in at once. Air fills my lungs too quickly, my heart pounding so hard it feels as though it might give me away.
Then the handle rattles.
I shrink deeper into my high-back chair, pulling my legs in to make myself small, certain someone is about to come through that door.
Except no one walks in.
Time stretches. Too long, not long enough. I can’t tell which.
After several drawn-out minutes, I force myself to move. I have to protect my art before they come back to steal the rest.
My failing memory prompted me to sell my business to Silas, and to prepare me for a moment I hoped would never come. I put measures in place to protect my collection. Quietly. Carefully. No one knew.
Having once been a thief, I was determined to protect what was mine from any potential plunderers.
I move toward the sculpture I created for just such an occasion. The twisted metal leaves little to the imagination. It’s not the sort of piece most men linger on. Most go out of their way to avoid any sculpture of a penis, unless they’re gay. Touching one is even less likely.
Since most thieves are men, I chose the most unlikely place to hide the wall-activating mechanism inside one. It’s not obvious. No one could find where I’ve hidden it without sincerely appreciating the beauty of this sculpted penis.
And most turn a blind eye. Pretend it isn’t there. Don’t dare to linger too long.
Making it the perfect hidden-in-plain-sight safeguard for my lovely art.
Reaching inside, I stroke the long metal rod several times until it releases the hidden panel at the base. Once it’s open, I enter the code and step back, watching as the walls come to life. Panels sliding outward and turning until each piece is sealed safely out of reach.
I wait until everything settles before closing the hidden door on the sculpture, making sure everything looks untouched. The room feels different now. Quieter. Protected. And I allow myself to breathe before moving toward the exit.
Carefully, I ease the door open, checking the hall. If I see anyone, I’ll engage the safe room’s lock, ensuring they can’t re-enter.
The coast is clear.
The dark hall swallows me as I quicken my pace towards Rico’s room, my thoughts a whirlwind. He won’t like this, not at this hour, but he needs to know what’s happening. And then Isabel. I need to find her, bring her to the gallery to hide until the police arrive.
I don’t bother knocking. I push open his door slowly and step inside, gently shutting it behind me.
That’s when Rico’s voice cuts through the quiet. Firm. Familiar. “What are you waiting for?”
I clamp both hands over my mouth and slip inside his closet, retreating into the darkness. From here, I can see everything, but no one can see me.
No time to think. The man from earlier, Drake, lifts the gun and fires.
Rico’s body jerks, then collapses.
For a moment, nothing makes sense. The sound, the movement, the stillness that follows. It all feels wrong, as though my head refuses to accept what I’ve just witnessed.
I try to scream, but my body won’t let me. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I can only watch.
Drake stands there for a few moments before moving further into the bathroom. I can’t see what he’s doing. I’m not sure I want to. When he returns, I shrink back, pressing myself deeper into the closet until I hit the wall behind me. Something falls with a dull thud, and panic surges through me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, certain he’s heard, convinced he’ll come for me next.
But he doesn’t.
The bedroom door shuts with a soft click. The sound shatters the spell, and a tiny whimper escapes before I can hold it back.
I can’t stay here. I have to find Isabel and get her to the gallery.
Forcing myself to push past the fear, I bravely step out of the closet.
I keep my eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look toward the bathroom. I can’t. Not now. There’s nothing I can do for him, and seeing my husband lying dead on the floor will only make this harder.
Looking down, I freeze. A gun is lying on the floor only a few feet away. The one Drake used.
I can’t leave it here. It’s important. Needs to be stored in a safe place.
Retreating into the closet, I stop at the box Rico was supposed to put in our downstairs storage unit. I grab the first thing I see—a silk scarf. Then I go back to where the gun still rests and gently wrap the heavy item, pushing away thoughts of the red stains coating the metal.
I rise and quickly return to the gallery. My hands shake as I fiddle with the keys. The sound of footsteps behind me makes my heart race faster, louder, as if it might give me away. The door opens just in time, and I rush inside.
I need to hide this in a spot they won’t discover it before I return with my Izzy.
Crossing to the far wall where the family portraits hang, I find what I’m looking for. When the panel on the floor pops, I flip it open and struggle to remember the combination. The numbers blur. My mind stutters. For a moment, I’m afraid I won’t remember.
But then it comes back to me, and after the fourth attempt, the lock clicks open. The door is heavy, but not impossible to lift. I shift a few folders and slide the gun between them. With a click, I shut the safe, slide the floor panel back into its spot, and exhale.
My head aches, a dull, heavy pressure that has me closing my eyes and uttering up a pray that it passes soon.
The gallery door clicks.
When I look up, two men are standing there.
“Who are you?” My feet are unsteady as I stand, my body swaying as I fight to stay upright. “Get out. You don’t belong here.”
The room tilts. I’m dizzy. So dizzy.
“Shit! How’d she get in here?” The younger man asks.
“I thought you said she was in her room?” The older one snaps.
“She was.” The younger one steps farther inside, then stops abruptly. “Where the fuck did the rest of the art go?”
The older man walks up to me, grabs me by the arms and gives me a good, solid shake. “What did you do?”
“You can’t have my art,” I tell him as he releases me. “I won’t let you steal it.”
He stomps around the gallery as if that will give him the answers. But he won’t find them.
While he’s acting a fool, I see my chance and make a run for the door. I get it open when something strikes the back of my head.
Pain explodes. The world lurches, tilting violently as I fall, the ground rushing to meet me as everything fades.