Chapter 32
thirty-two
VAL
Ididn’t want to risk running into any lingering guests from the soirée, so I used an alternate entrance near the loading docks. My keycard scan would be recorded, but those keycard logs had been so jumbled, I’d be shocked if anyone noticed.
Pain lanced my chest as the lightbulb in Rick’s closet flickered to life. I made a mental note to check with my doctor. Surely bones weren’t supposed to ache like this. Ignoring the memory of Amantha’s lips on mine, I toggled my phone’s flashlight and approached the back shelf.
“Toilet paper box...” I stooped and removed the large box from the shelf, freezing as a roll of canvas revealed itself. My mind sped off like a racehorse without a finish line.
What was it doing here? Had someone tried to steal it, and failed? More so, why was it still here?
Despite my shock, my professional brain kicked in. I stood, located a box filled with nitrile gloves, fitted them over my large hands, and extracted the canvas.
It was a Cormac Padraig, just like Amantha had said.
Waves spilled and crashed against the Irish Cliffs of Moher, the lush green countryside spanning the length of the canvas.
I gawked down at it.
Someone had committed a plethora of crimes, beginning with thievery and ending with reckless abandonment.
Anger churned in my belly at the injustice of it all. And why steal it only to ditch it in a closet? Was the thief really that stupid? Or did they just suck at thieving altogether?
I pictured Amantha finding this only hours ago, and my stomach dropped. Had she touched it with her bare hands? If she had, and I turned the painting in to the authorities, it was only a matter of time until she’d be implicated.
Not on my watch.
No, I’d get to the bottom of this. For her. To marginally atone for even a fraction of the pain I’d caused her.
I scrubbed a hand down my face. It was going to be a very long night.
After removing the enormous rolls of toilet paper from the cardboard box, I placed them on the dusty shelf.
Then I eased the priceless canvas inside, taking care not to jostle the edges.
The Cormac Padraig seemed to be in rough shape, but I didn’t know how extensive the damage was, nor did I know what a murky closet could do over time.
To do so, I’d need to cash in another favor with my authentication friend from college.
Checking my watch, I groaned before making the call.
“Hey, man. So sorry to ask this on a Friday night, but I could really use your help.”
Two hours later, I said goodbye to my bewildered colleague and stepped back into the service elevator. Examining a battered masterpiece in my open office had felt too risky, despite it being well past midnight. So, I pressed the button for the sublevel and returned to the archives in silence.
Typing the date onto the glowing blue keypad, I reopened the door. The Cormac Padraig was still on the work table, just as we had left it.
No. I corrected myself. The forged Cormac Padraig was still where we had left it.
Another forgery.
Even though it had seemed so real, I trusted my colleague. The guy had been top of our class in college, and the assortment of tests he had run left no doubt.
I ran a hand through my disheveled hair. I almost felt stupid for even being surprised.
Whoever was involved with Lake Attersee was undoubtedly involved with the Cormac Padraig. Because the chances of two groups of thieves working independently from each other and failing was too idiotic for my brain to comprehend.
Sighing, I boxed up the forged painting and stowed it behind a giant crate. All I could hope was that it would stay undiscovered until I knew what to do with it.
I hoped I was covering my bases for the authorities. Obviously, Amantha had found a tangible piece of evidence, but I didn’t know what the evidence was even evident of.
Moments later, I stepped into my darkened office.
The soirée ended hours ago, leaving me with only an eerie silence for company.
Logging into the computer, I waited for the software to boot up while I scrolled through the photos of evidence I had taken.
The dusty shelf. The forged painting. The record my authentication colleague had written.
After typing into the search bar, I squinted as a scanned condition report on the Cormac Padraig loaded. The printed date on the document was a few years back.
That would check out, based on the amount of dust on that shelf.
How had no one found it in all this time? Had anyone even been looking? Then again, Rick’s closet was home to many obscure things lost over time. But what kind of botched robbery ended up leaving forged artwork in a dank closet?
I zoomed in on the signature at the bottom of the condition report.
Kendra Steele.
My eyes grew wide. Had Amantha been right all along? I enlarged the signature even further before snapping a photo. I loaded a second condition report on the same painting, though dated further back, zooming in again on the signature.
Kendra Steele.
My stomach turned over like a sand timer, each grain spurring a sense of urgency.
The names were identical, though the signatures were not.
I quickly gathered more samples of the museum director’s signature as my heartbeat sped.
While none were exact in precision to the others, they were at least consistent.
All but one.
Someone had signed off on the recent condition report, but it most definitely hadn’t been Kendra.
My fingers flew as they typed the name of the Cormac Padraig into the storage logging system.
It was a hail mary pass, but if the forgery was currently covered in dust, where was the real one? My jaw dropped.
“It’s still here?”
Had it never been stolen in the first place? Or was this an error? I couldn’t be sure until I saw it myself. I jotted down the archive room number and shelf location, took another picture, and locked up my office.
The blue keypad beeped for the third time as I reentered the first storage room. In a matter of seconds, I slid a crate from a low wire shelf and read the label. A Lonesome Sight. Cormac Padraig. Charcoal and oil on canvas. Archive #1, slot 28.
I clicked the silver latch open. Peeking beneath the lid, I froze. The authentic waves tumbled against the Irish cliffs of Moher, ignoring my gaping mouth. It hadn’t been stolen after all.
Adrenaline pounded through my veins.
Amantha.
I cursed the time on my wrist. 2:03 AM.
This couldn’t wait. I couldn’t spend another second with her thinking I’d stolen the painting that was literally in front of me.
So, I selected all the photos of evidence I’d taken and texted them to her. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I dialed her number.
Voicemail.
Couldn’t blame her. It was really late—this call even more proof of me being a selfish jerk. The recording beep sounded too quickly.
Not knowing what to say, my words tumbled out of their own accord.
“Amantha. Um, hi. I tried to call… Well, obviously.” I grimaced.
“I guess if this is the only way I can reach you, I apologize in advance for all the voicemails I’ll be leaving tonight.
First off, I need you to know that I have in no way been involved in all this.
To be honest, I’ve been racking my brain trying to see your perspective.
To be fair, I know we’ve not been, um, talking. But, still. I’m no criminal—”
Beep. The recording timed out, so I cursed and dialed again.
Voicemail.
“Sorry, got cut off. Well, I found the Cormac Padraig behind the toilet paper box like you said and called my authentication friend to assess the damage. Amantha, the painting in the closet is fake. The real Cormac Padraig is still here in the archives. I’m looking at it right now.
Granted, if you still think I’m a thief, you probably don’t believe me. ”
I let out an exhausted chuckle, the late hour suddenly taking a humorous turn.
“All I’m asking is to give a guy a break.
I’ve been at the museum all night trying to clear my name here.
And get this—I looked up the last condition report for the Padraig, and it looks like Kendra signed off on it, but her signature was forged—”
Beep.
An exasperated sound growled from my throat. The third call went to voicemail again.
“Stupid phone. Anyways, I wonder if they forged the condition report so no one would notice any changes once they swapped it out. Like they were taking extra precautions this time, unlike Attersee’s condition report with the yellowing lily.
And I still don’t know who is behind all this, but don’t think it’s Kendra or Blythe.
I guess on Monday we can get together… I mean, if you are still… ”
My throat tightened. “I’m sorry, okay? Just know—I never wanted to hurt you. If you don’t want to talk, it’s… Well, I get it. Good night, Amantha.”
I hung up.
I didn’t know if she would ever listen to the recordings.
Or ever pick up a call from me again.
After all, who would want to answer a call from the devil?