Chapter 29 Linc
LINC
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m in the habit of sleeping with blackout curtains and experience a peculiar feeling of disorientation, much like when I’m traveling for away games.
The jet lag is the most brutal, but as the room around me takes shape, I realize I’m at home in the condo. Strangely, my left arm feels like it’s been replaced by a block of concrete. Numb and prickly concrete.
Blinking away the haze of sleep, I realize Jules is curled against my side on the couch, her head tucked into the hollow between my shoulder and chest.
For a moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t do anything that might disturb this perfect moment.
Her hair smells like cherry blossoms and almonds with a hint of paint thinner—evidence of what brought us here. One of her hands rests on my chest, fingers splayed like she’s claiming territory, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of her inhales and exhales through my shirt.
This is not how I planned to wake up this morning.
It’s infinitely better.
Then reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. The stolen painting and all our evidence of wrongdoing are still spread across my kitchen island and now the coffee table in incriminating photographs that can only mean one thing.
We fell asleep.
Together.
On my couch.
After committing what most people would classify as a felony at the gallery.
Jules stirs, making a small sound that’s half sigh, half protest against consciousness. Her eyes flutter open, and for exactly three seconds, she looks peaceful and content.
Then awareness hits.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she mutters, bolting upright so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t give herself whiplash.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice rough with sleep.
I instantly regret losing the warmth where she’d been pressed against me.
She stares at me with wide eyes, her blonde hair sticking up at angles that would be hilarious if she didn’t look so mortified. “We fell asleep.”
“Appears so.”
“Together.”
“Also accurate.”
“On your couch.”
“Full marks for observation skills.”
She runs both hands through her hair, which only makes the situation worse.
I like abruptly waking up Jules. Sleepy, late-night Jules. All versions of Juliana Lindley.
She asks, “What time is it?”
I check my watch, trying not to focus on how the morning light makes her skin glow or how her sleep-rumpled appearance makes me want to pull her back into my arms. “Seven-thirty. Plenty of time before work.”
Instead of looking relieved, panic flashes across her face. “The painting!” She jumps up and gathers photos from the kitchen island. “We never returned it to the gallery.”
Right. The lawbreaking. How did I forget about it so quickly? I was distracted by this amazing woman who happened to fall asleep on the couch with me last night.
She turns in a frantic circle as if trying to get her bearings. “We have to get it back. Today. Right now.”
I softly grip her upper arms. “Jules, breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
“No, you don’t understand. This is stolen goods. If we get caught with it—”
“We won’t get caught.” I shake my head slowly as my mind hatches a hasty plan.
Brow creased, she says, “But we can’t leave it here. I’ll take it back to my place.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not letting you take the fall for this.”
“You’re an Andresen, high profile. I’m … nobody.” Her voice wavers.
“No one is going to take the fall because no one knows,” I insist. “You’re being paranoid.”
“We’re art thieves, Linc. We have reason to be.”
“We’re conducting an investigation.”
“Authorized by what governing authority?”
I can’t help but grin at her indignation. “The concerned family of Abraham Lincoln.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile she’s trying to suppress. “Don’t joke about this.”
“It’s better than jumping to worst-case scenarios. Unless you have a prior criminal history, we have no reason to worry. Should I run a background check on you? Any skeletons in your closet?” I tease.
Jules lets out a strangled laugh. “My closet? You’ve been to my studio. There is only an armoire.”
Taking a risk, I draw her into a hug. “If something goes wrong, I’ll make sure everyone knows this was my idea. You were just following orders from your demanding boss.”
She tips her head back, but her gaze remains unfocused as if dozens of thoughts collide in her mind, causing a traffic jam. “You’re right. No one is taking any fall because no one’s going to find out,” she repeats, but the tremor in her voice suggests she’s not entirely convinced.
I study her face, noting the way she won’t quite meet my eyes and the protective set of her shoulders.
I suddenly worry there is more to Jules than she’s letting on, layers of secrets hidden behind her bright smile and spunky personality.
Then again, I’m hardly in a position to judge anyone for keeping things hidden.
“We should probably get ready for work,” I say reluctantly. “It’s Monday. Your favorite day of the week.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “How did you know that?”
I count on my fingers. “Let’s see. Where to start?
You’re the only person at Meridian who brings leftover weekend energy into the office instead of exhaustion.
Last week, you printed out motivational quotes and left them on everyone’s keyboards.
You often bring a baked good you made over the weekend to share in the lunchroom.
You also water the office plants every Monday and hum while you do it.
And you always wear something colorful at the start of the week like you’re rebelling against the Monday blahs. ”
A flush spreads across her cheeks. “You pay attention to a lot of unnecessary details.”
“Nothing about you is unnecessary.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Jules freezes like I’ve just confessed to major crimes. Which, technically, I have.
“You like fresh starts,” I add, trying to equalize things.
“Hopefully, I don’t have one in prison.”
My phone buzzes with a text in the team group chat. I glance at it.
Bīri??: I’m back in the land of the maple leaf and getting in my morning skate. Coach wants to talk to everyone about conditioning plans. Dun, dun, dun.
He adds the skull and crossbones emoji.
For the first time, possibly ever, my stomach drops at the notion of my beloved pastime and livelihood. Hockey. Training. The life I’m supposed to be preparing for while I’m here playing corporate hack and art thief.
The fans who recognized me the other night outside the gallery flash through my mind—how long before word gets out that I was lurking behind buildings in the middle of the night? Thankfully, they weren’t the type to ask for selfies. Maybe they were up to no good, too.
“Everything okay?” Jules asks.
“Just your favorite boating buddy.” While that part is true, the next part is a lie. “Nothing important.”
It is vitally important. Every day I spend here makes it harder to keep my two lives separate.
Every moment with Jules makes me want to tell her the truth, and every text from my teammates makes me regret not doing so sooner.
At this point, she’ll be upset that I wasn’t forthcoming with my real day job.
“I should go and get ready at home,” Jules says, moving toward the door. “We can’t show up at the office together looking like this and have people thinking we’re …” She trails off, gesturing vaguely between us.
My lips twitch with a grin. “That we’re what?”
“You know. That we’re, um, anything other than professional colleagues.”
“Right. Professional colleagues who commit crimes together on weekends.”
And fall asleep together on the sofa.
Despite Jules’s love for Monday, the day passes in a blur of meetings.
I can barely concentrate. Every time someone mentions asset protection or insurance procedures, my mind jumps to the painting hidden in my bedroom closet.
Every time Jules walks past my office, I remember the weight of her head on my shoulder and the trust she placed in me by falling asleep in my arms.
During an afternoon administrative meeting, I find myself studying faces around the conference table, wondering which of these people might be involved in the insurance fraud we uncovered.
Maxine drones on about protecting company assets and allocating more funds toward loss coverage. I can’t tell if her emphasis on the topic is suspicious or just her usual obsession with liability.
Just then, Jules quietly enters and slides a folder onto the table in front of me.
Nodding pointedly, I’m not sure if the contents are a hastily scrawled note, alerting me that the authorities are coming and instructing me to make a run for it or if this is the report I requested regarding the discrepancies we’ve been investigating.
If that’s the case, she sure is efficient.
“As I was saying,” Maxine continues, visibly irritated given the way her eye twitches, “we need to ensure our most valuable acquisitions are properly protected. Our top-tier collections alone represent millions in potential loss, never mind how much individual properties add up on the balance. Right now, it’s the Lincoln-related pieces I’m most concerned about. ”
My head snaps up. Out of the corner of my eye, my father’s does too. He probes for clarification, “Are you referring to the pieces we’ve acquired over the past eighteen months or the original works?”
“There’s the Fairfax Collection to be sure,” Maxine starts.
The very one Jules and I have been working on.
I suddenly feel as if I’m on a putting green during a thunderstorm …
while on the golf trip last week, one of Dad’s friends mentioned a Civil War painting by Clement Marchand.
Only, he pronounced it in the French way, Clegh-men Marsh-an.
Said it was perfect for someone with our “heritage” and made a joke about Lincoln probably spinning in his grave over modern auction prices. I only piece this together now.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing abruptly. “I just remembered something urgent I need to handle.”
Dad frowns. “The meeting isn’t over, Abraham.”
“I know. I’ll catch up with everyone later.”
I practically sprint to my office, my mind racing. If the painting we borrowed is part of a diptych and Dad’s friend was right, I think I know where to find it … tonight.
Jules appears in my doorway with a stack of files, her expression carefully neutral for anyone who might be watching.
“You’re back fast. In light of the meeting, I thought you might be interested in the insurance documentation inconsistencies,” she says formally, but her eyes are bright with discovery.
“I didn’t have a chance to look at it. What did you find?”
She closes the door behind her. “I had a little help. The office girlies came through. The insurance valuations for several recent acquisitions are inflated by thirty to forty percent above market value. Someone with executive access has been systematically overvaluing pieces for larger payouts … going back for at least eighteen months. All Civil War era works. All were authenticated by the same external appraiser and brokered at similar auctions. I can’t quite find the connection, but there is one.
I’m sure of it.” She slides a file across my desk. “Look familiar?”
I scan the documentation, my pulse quickening. “These are all from estates that were liquidated quickly. Sellers who needed fast cash and didn’t have time for proper market evaluation.”
“Exactly. Someone has been deceiving desperate sellers and inflating values for insurance purposes. It’s fraud, Linc. But that’s not where it ends.” She swallows thickly. “As you see, some of them have then been sold at auction.”
I nod in understanding. “Jules, I think I know where the companion piece to our painting is.”
Her eyes widen. “Where?”
“There’s a charity auction this weekend at the Whitmore estate outside New York City.
High-end collectors, private sales. It’s the kind of event where millionaires go to show off their cultural sophistication.
” I lean forward, excitement building. “One of my father’s golf buddies mentioned a Civil War painting from the Fairfax Collection. ”
“Do you think it could be the other half of the diptych?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“Do you want me to make your travel arrangements?”
I shake my head. “I’ll handle that if only not to rouse suspicion.” I sit on the edge of my desk. “But none of this answers why someone would go to the trouble of hiding part of a two-piece work.”
Jules blinks a few times as if thinking and then snaps her fingers. “If they’re selling them separately, they can inflate the values and collect insurance on both pieces individually.”
She’s sharp.
Letting out a shaky exhale, she drops into the chair across from my desk. “This is huge, Linc. If we can prove the connection between the paintings and link it to the insurance fraud …”
“We’ll have enough evidence to expose whoever’s behind this.” I pause, studying her face. “But it means we need to attend that auction. Together. As buyers with enough credibility to examine the piece closely.”
“I can’t afford to bid on a million-dollar artwork.”
“You won’t be Jules, the research assistant. You’ll be my … consultant. Art expert. Whatever we need you to be … my plus-one.”
Pink creeps up her neck.
An idea sparks. I make a rash decision. “Take the afternoon off.”
“What? Why?” She leans forward, concern scrolling across her features.
“Because you’re going to need to blend in with wealthy collectors whose wardrobe closet is bigger than your studio apartment. Plus, after everything you’ve done to help me, you deserve to be spoiled a little.”
“Linc, that’s not necessary—”
I pull out my phone and start typing. “I’m making you an appointment at the spa on Beaubien. It’s not far. Full treatment. Then shopping. Whatever you need to feel confident walking into a room full of Manhattan’s art elite.”
“I can’t let you—”
“You can and you will. This whole thing was my idea, remember? The least I can do is make sure you’re prepared.”
She stares at me blankly as if the words don’t compute. “Why are you doing this?”
Because I’m falling for you.
Because you’re refreshingly real.
Because I want everyone else to realize how extraordinary you are.
“Because tonight could change everything.” If someone has been stealing from my father … or even more concerning, he’s involved, I need to know. It could affect the jobs of everyone in this company.
Jules looks like she wants to argue.
“The car will be waiting downstairs for you in fifteen minutes.”
She opens and closes her mouth. “Okay, but only because this is for the investigation.”
“Of course.”
“Right.”
As she walks toward the door, I catch her smile—small and secret and sweet. And I realize that change is indeed afoot.
But none of that explains how she pulled off the forged copy of the painting so easily.