Chapter 30 #2
I stopped breathing. Muscle memory in my lungs failed me, as did my traitorous, racing heart. It took every ounce of self-control not to throw myself into his arms, to shake that stupid smile from his face, to kiss it, to scream at him for answers.
That’s not fair, I pleaded soundlessly.
Either Val didn’t get the message this time, or he chose to ignore it. Instead, his russet eyes continued to watch me.
“I can’t do this,” I mumbled as pain pricked my eyes.
Not here. Not now.
“Amantha.” Kendra’s brisk voice assaulted me, providing the perfect distraction.
I turned as she approached in a sleek black dress dripping with diamonds.
“You’ve outdone yourself. Well, you and Blythe, I suppose.
I predict this will be the event of the year.
” Her thin lips twitched, like she forced a smile and failed miserably.
“Thank you, Kendra. That means… a lot.”
“Of course. And I’ve lost track of Val. Have you seen him recently?”
Was it just me, or did this woman always seem suspicious?
“Yes, I have. He’s over there.”
Kendra eyed my directional nod before giving me another failed lip twitch and walking away.
I chided myself for being distracted. This night was too important. Too special to let the likes of him get inside my head.
Blythe waved to me from across the crowd. Dressed in an emerald pantsuit that perfectly matched her shining eyes, she stood with her arm wrapped around a person whom I assumed was her date—a beautiful woman with chestnut hair and an animated smile.
Apologizing for the interruption, I introduced myself before grasping Blythe's elbow and whispering into her ear. My boss shook her head vehemently, gesturing instead for me to step onto the constructed platform. Eyes wide and hands shaking, I accepted the microphone she forced into them.
“This is your night, Amantha. Make us proud,” Blythe said.
I hugged her tightly. “I will. Thank you for this opportunity, Blythe.”
I took a deep breath, stepped onto the platform, lifted the microphone, and began.
“To Lance Stirling’s guests and fans, we’d like to welcome you to The Chicago Legacy Art Museum. If the artist of honor would join me, we are about to reveal his never-before-seen masterpiece.”
Applause exploded while a few whistles reverberated throughout the hall, guests gathering in a sea of satin and neckties.
Stirling’s auburn spikes bobbed through the crowd as he shook hands before climbing up beside me.
Cameras flashed, scattering my vision as I tried to smile for them all.
My eyes caught on the handsome man leaning against the back wall, a fresh glass of Prosecco in his hands.
I steeled my mind, forced another breath into my imprisoned ribs, and lifted the microphone again.
“The museum was fortunate enough to commission one of Lance Stirling’s incredible pieces.
After it has been revealed, the silent auction will begin.
You may register your bids, as well as any donations, at the entrance of the hall.
Proceeds will be donated to the artist’s charity of choice: Free Expressions. ”
I turned to the elated young man beside me. “Stirling, would you do the honors?”
Snatching the microphone, Stirling said silkily, “I thought you’d never ask.” He winked at the expecting crowd, who quieted as he reached for the cloth covering the podium beside him.
With a swish of fabric, the stunning reveal resulted in a collective gasp and applause. Camera flashes assailed us both.
My jaw dropped.
The sculpture was a tree the size of a table lamp. Its trunk had been sculpted from winding clay around a black metal structure, whose iron shot out of the wood at random. Shattered green glass jutted atop the branches. The whole piece came alive with refracted light as cameras continued to flash.
The evening progressed as Stirling flitted from person to person.
Guests plucked appetizers from trays laden with delicious choices.
The auction was completed, one of the top-donating patrons winning the tree.
People relaxed on loveseats, languishing among the art.
Stirling seemed exhausted, the kind that only comes from adrenaline and joy.
I folded my arms over the glowing warmth in my chest.
“Ahem.” A deep voice cleared his throat from behind me. I knew it was Val without turning around—which I didn’t.
“Yes?” I hated the small quiver in that word.
“You’ve… You’ve done a great job. I’m happy for you that Kendra and Blythe are seeing this,” Val murmured from over my shoulder.
That one compliment—that bleak reminder of the kindness Val was capable of—had an angry sob of abandonment threatening to break free.
Not here. Not now.
“Thank you, but I’ve got to check on the kitchen.” I rushed to the elevator, swiped my keycard, abused the button repeatedly, and prayed he hadn’t followed.
But instead of going down to the kitchen, I pressed the button for the third floor. I needed oxygen. I needed Lake Attersee, even if it was just a forgery.
The Vanderbilt wing stood deserted, with only motion-activated lights and the fading sun lighting the space.
Sighing at the familiar blue waters, I kicked off my heels and relished the cold marble with my aching toes. I stood for a long moment, trying to ease the even worse ache in my chest. Val had no right to approach me. Not tonight. What even was that?
I angrily swiped my tears away only to have them replaced by more. The sounds of happy guests from below felt like an attack. It was all too much.
Through blurry eyes, I plucked the higher-clearance keycard from my purse and scanned it beside Rick’s closet. Leaving my shoes behind, I shut myself in the closet, barefoot and broken.
A good cry was just what I needed. I was tired of pretending to be so strong all the time. Of acting like it didn’t feel like a razor blade to my heart when I saw Val every day.
How long would it take until his ghost left my heart? I realized he never would. After all, ghosts never left their haunting grounds.
I cursed the smudges of mascara coming away on my fingers. With no mirror in the closet, I guessed I probably looked like a drowned raccoon. Maybe I could find a box of paper products? This was a storage closet, after all.
I began to explore, a bittersweet smile blooming when I found a mini-fridge humming with several lemonade bottles inside. Shelves of cleaning supplies, jugs of industrial cleaners, and even a random chess set littered the shelves. A set of cobwebbed golf clubs leaned against a cabinet.
Rick, you old coot.
Shadows loomed in the back of the closet, the only bulb too far away to fully illuminate the deep, narrow space. I searched the shelves spanning the rear wall before I found a promising box on the bottom shelf stamped with a toiletry company’s logo. I stooped to pull out the box.
“Bingo.”
Industrial-sized toilet paper rolls. Small mounds of used tissue grew on the floor beside me as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.
Satisfied, I kneeled back down, my knee slipping through the slit of my dress.
As I pushed the heavy box back on the shelf, I stopped and tilted my head in confusion.
Although I couldn’t quite make it out, something lurked in the shadow behind the box.
I gasped.
It was a roll of canvas, about two feet long, covered in a fine layer of dust. The edges of the scroll were frayed from neglect and age. Like a shaking moth to a flame, I drew it off the shelf and unrolled it.
It was a Cormac Padraig painting.
A priceless Cormac Padraig.
The Irish artist had been world-renowned in the early nineteen-hundreds.
I tried in vain to still my trembling hands.
“This can’t be here.” My eyes flitted over the small masterpiece. This wasn’t just a painting. It was a piece of history. A piece of history that needed protection, anti-humidity chambers, reparations and monitoring. Not to be stored in Rick’s musty closet.
I fumbled for an explanation until I noticed my brain was screaming at me. There was no explanation. This wasn’t a museum oversight. No, this had been intentional.
Cursing the destructive oils from my fingers, I carefully rolled it and placed it back onto the shelf. Judging from the layer of dust, it had been there for a very long time.
My head felt woozy as I snapped a few pictures. Not knowing what else to do at the moment, I slid the toilet paper box back onto the shelf in an effort to hide it—for now.
Lake Attersee had been the tip of the freaking iceberg.
What was the Cormac Padraig doing here? Who had stowed it in Rick’s closet, of all places? Did Rick steal it? Was the museum an art laundering front or something? Just how many staff members were involved? My mouth ran dry, unable to swallow.
Did Val know?
My face drew taut. Of course he knew. Rick had to have been covering for him. Why else would it be stored here, of all places?
My stomach twisted so violently, I had to clamp my jaw and breathe through my nose for a few minutes.
I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I had never found it. I wished I had stayed in the Bloomburg wing, choosing to sob over Val in front of Stirling’s guests than to have made this sickening discovery.
I slumped to the floor in a sea of blue velvet, pressing my bare shoulders against the concrete wall. This was it. I finally had some tangible evidence, and Val had been undeniably implicated.
It was time for the here and now.
Sick, tired, and shaking with anger, I unlocked my phone and texted Val.
AMANTHA: Eli Bates Fountain. Twenty minutes or I’m calling the police.