Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mandy
Todd’s fingers dig into my arm as he yanks me back. “Where are you going?” His face reddens, spittle flying from his mouth as he speaks. “The event is still going on. Most of the board isn’t here and now you’re leaving?”
I meet his gaze, keeping my expression carefully blank while my pulse races beneath his grip. The words I want to say stick in my throat.
“Oh, I get it.” He releases my arm, running his hand through his hair.
“Is this your little act of revenge? Throwing on a poorly planned event. I could have run this better with my eyes closed.” He ticks off each point on his fingers, his voice rising with each criticism.
The food choices, the amateur musicians, the complete lack of introduction.
The absence of his precious Ta-Da moment that he usually orchestrates to perfection.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out hollow. My phone feels heavy in my pocket, still silent. No messages from Seymour. No explanation for his absence.
There’s so much I want to say, but Diana’s house calls to me like a beacon.
The faster I get there, the faster this nightmare of an evening will end.
Plus, there’s the gnawing worry about Seymour.
Complete silence. No calls, no texts, nothing.
My fingers curl into my palms, fighting the urge to check my phone again.
“Well?” Todd’s sharp voice cuts through my thoughts.
I blink, realizing I’d completely tuned out his tirade. “Well, what?”
“Will you come back inside and give me the proper introduction I deserve?” He steps closer, his cologne overwhelming. “I thought this event meant a lot to you.” His lips curve into a sneer. “That’s right. I’ve read the articles. You’re about to go belly up. I could save this gallery.”
Any remaining guilt about leaving evaporates. I don’t want the gallery saved if Alexander Silvano is our savior.
I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. “This is an emergency. I’ll be back soon.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I have no intention of returning.
Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of what might be panic breaks through his composed facade. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.” I adjust my purse strap, straightening my spine. “Just something I need to check on.” I can’t resist adding, “You’re more than welcome to go back inside and schmooze it up to sell your watered-down versions of the real thing.”
I turn and walk away, leaving Todd standing in the parking lot, his mouth hanging open in shock. The confidence surging through me is new, unfamiliar. For the first time, I’ve stood up to him. He’s lucky I have more pressing matters to attend to.
Diana’s home sits at the end of a winding drive, where all the gorgeous houses hide among towering pines and manicured landscapes.
During the ten-minute drive, I rehearse different approaches.
Like, It’s so weird. I read about this gallery in Ohio that had a bunch of murders.
Or, Did you know that there are still people hunting down art the Nazis stole?
What I really want to say is: Diana, you’re my mentor, my boss, a friend. Please don’t tell me you killed Eugene and Darren over their art collections.
The thought makes my stomach clench. I want to drop to my knees and beg God to prove her innocent. My hope is she’ll be just as horrified as I was at Barrie’s research.
Her magnificent colonial comes into view, its windows dark except for a single light downstairs. Her car sits in the circular drive, trunk open with what looks like suitcases protruding from the back. My heart thuds against my ribs.
Not a good sign.
I climb the wide stone steps to her front door, which stands slightly ajar. The wood creaks as I push it open. “Diana?”
The foyer opens to her formal living room, everything still in place.
The butter-soft leather couches, the imposing oak dining table, the carefully curated artwork on the walls.
Maybe she’s just getting away for the weekend.
Visiting a college friend. But then I spot the box on the dining room table.
I glance over my shoulder before approaching. The cardboard box overflows with newspaper articles, their edges worn as if frequently handled. I lift one, then another, scanning headlines.
They all feature artists, but as I read closer, these aren’t just any artists. They’re collectors, each boasting impressive private collections. A chill creeps along my spine. Is this research for the gallery, or something more sinister?
The rest of the box holds books on art history. Some general texts, others focused on specific paintings or artists. My fingers trace the spine of one about Nazi-looted art.
“Mandy?” Diana’s voice, sharp with surprise, makes me jump.
I drop the article, whirling around. My heart hammers as I force brightness into my voice.
“Oh, there you are! Julie said you weren’t feeling well.
I knew right away that you wouldn’t miss this event unless you were on your death bed, so I rushed over to see if you need any chicken soup or anything.
” I wince internally. Chicken soup? Really?
She laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just a touch of the stomach bug, but I didn’t want to risk attending. You understand, right?”
The simple phrase carries weight, like she’s asking me to understand so much more. Like she’s asking me to understand why she might have killed for stolen art.
Does she know about Todd?
Does she realize stolen art would resonate with me, too? That we share common ground. Though I’d never compare my situation to the victims of Nazi theft.
“Of course. Of course,” I say, watching as she moves quickly to the table and pulls the box closer, closing it with deliberate care.
Okay. Do it now! I clear my throat. “Um, quite the research collection.”
Diana’s gaze flicks between the box and my face, her fingers drumming once on its surface. “It’s a bunch of stuff I’m clearing out. I might not be well enough to attend the event, but I could get work done here. I’ve been meaning to declutter for a while now.”
“Oh, right.”
The exhaustion hits me then, settling deep in my bones. My mind fumbles for the perfect words, the right questions that might make Diana confide in me. Nothing comes. Maybe I should just be direct. “Did you—”
“I’m glad you’re here, Mandy.” She straightens a stack of papers, her movements precise and controlled.
“Oh?” My voice catches. It’s like she sensed my question about the murders.
“I wanted to wait for a better time, but I’m afraid there is no better time.” She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping. “I’m selling the gallery.”
It’s like we’re in a physical fight and she sideswiped my legs out from underneath me, but then I think of all I’ve lost in the past twenty-four hours. Nothing can shock me right now. “That’s too bad.”
Her left eyebrow arches. “I thought you’d care more.”
“I do.” But we have a small problem with two murder victims. I study her face, searching for any sign of the mentor I thought I knew. “How well do you know Jack Hansen?”
“Well enough.” Her eyes dart to the door, fingers curling around the edge of the box.
Time is running out. I can feel it slipping away. “There’s a chance he’s behind the murders.”
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. The reaction seems rehearsed, too perfect. “What? I can’t believe that. He’s well respected in the art world for his fair treatment of artists and dealers. Murder just doesn’t fall within his purview.”
“He hasn’t always gone by Jack Hansen.” I step closer, watching her face.
“He’s also been John Walters, and he’s connected to the gallery in Ohio where artists were killed during their events.
” The color drains from her face. “Eugene and Darren were innocent victims. If they owned any stolen art, they probably didn’t know it. ”
Something hard and cold flashes in Diana’s eyes.
When she speaks, her voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before.
“I don’t know who had it out for them, but I’m sure they were given a chance to do the right thing.
I’m sure they were told and persuaded to give up the stolen art.
Make the right decision.” Her shoulders lift in a casual shrug that doesn’t match the intensity in her eyes.
“Clearly, they chose not to do that. They ignored any warnings. Maybe they deserved punishment.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. She knows. She knows exactly what happened.
She moves suddenly, lifting the box. “I wish you all the best with your art, Mandy. I’m sorry the gallery is closing.”
Then she’s moving past me, box clutched to her chest. A quick air kiss, one final smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and she’s gone. The sound of her car starting breaks the silence.
Was that a confession? Sort of. Maybe. I hope it’s enough for the police to pursue questioning, to dig deeper into Diana’s past.
I follow her path to the door, watching her taillights disappear down the winding drive. She’s really leaving, running before the noose can tighten.
A small part of me still clings to hope that she’s innocent. That this is all a massive misunderstanding. That she’ll be back tomorrow with some perfectly reasonable explanation.
The weight of everything crashes down on me: the murders, Todd’s appearance, Diana’s betrayal, my burned studio, all of it pressing against my chest until it’s hard to breathe.
But there’s one more thing I have to do.
Seymour recently inherited an art collection. The thought hits me like a bucket of ice water. He hasn’t contacted me in what feels like forever. He didn’t show up for the Silvano event—and nothing would normally keep him from that.
My hands shake as I dig my car keys from my purse. I need to see him. Need to know he’s okay. Need to see him one more time.
All the things that seemed so important before. His trust issues, that stupid wealth test—they fall away like autumn leaves. Well, I have trust issues too. We’re even on that score.
Heart racing, I slide behind the wheel. The engine roars to life, and I press harder on the gas than necessary.
The tires crunch over gravel as I take the curves of her driveway too fast, focused only on reaching Seymour’s house.
My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, and the pine-scented air rushing through my open window does nothing to calm my nerves.
Every second that passes without knowing if he’s safe feels like an eternity.