Chapter 6 - The Lie He Couldn't ExplainI waited until Gabriel came downstairs.
Then I slapped the laptop around so he could see the screen.
“You were there.”
He stopped.
For once, Gabriel Rossi had no immediate answer.
“That footage is incomplete.”
“Then complete it.”
He closed the door.
“My uncle told me your father was stealing from us.”
“And you believed him.”
“I was twenty.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No. It's an explanation.”
He sat across from me.
That surprised me.
No intimidation.
No orders.
Just a man finally choosing honesty.
“I followed Arthur that night. Vittorio was already there. They argued. Arthur gave me a package and told me to leave.”
“What package?”
“A letter and a photograph.”
“My father's letter.”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“I left. Twenty minutes later, Arthur's car went over the embankment.”
My eyes burned.
“And you never told police?”
“My family owned half the people who would have investigated.”
“That isn't justice.”
“No.”
He accepted the accusation.
“I spent eight years trying to prove Vittorio ordered it.”
“Did you?”
“Not until you found those paintings.”
The betrayal still hurt.
But it was no longer simple.
Nothing about Gabriel was simple.
Then my phone rang.
Rossi Gallery.
My supervisor was crying.
There had been a fire.
I ran.
Gabriel followed.
The gallery's restoration wing was burning when we arrived.
Firefighters filled the street.
I pushed toward the entrance.
“My work—”
Gabriel grabbed me.
“You're not going inside.”
“There are paintings—”
“Nora.”
“My father's journal is in my locker!”
That changed everything.
Someone wasn't merely trying to kill me anymore.
They were destroying evidence.
A firefighter eventually recovered my locker.
The journal survived.
Barely.
Half the pages were blackened.
One section remained readable.
My father had written about a painting called The Woman in Blue.
I knew it immediately.
It was the painting I had been restoring when all this began.
We returned after the fire was contained.
The canvas had survived inside the fireproof restoration room.
I examined the frame.
There.
A tiny groove.
Inside the backing was a microfilm strip.
Gabriel stared at it.
“Your father was very good.”
“He was paranoid.”
“He was alive long enough to become paranoid.”
The microfilm contained bank records.
Names.
Payments.
And one final transfer scheduled for Friday.
Two hundred million dollars.
Vittorio was preparing to disappear.
But there was another name beside his.
Celeste Moreau.
I felt my stomach drop.
Gabriel looked devastated.
His former fiancée had lied.
Then Marco called.
Celeste had vanished.
And she had taken one of Gabriel's cars.
Gabriel closed his eyes.
“Track it.”
Marco hesitated.
“We already did.”
“Where?”
Marco looked at me.
“She's at Bennett Cemetery.”
My father's grave.
We reached it twenty minutes later.
Celeste was kneeling beside Arthur Bennett's headstone.
Alone.
Crying.
When she saw us, she lifted both hands.
“I didn't help Vittorio.”
Gabriel's voice was ice.
“Your name is on the accounts.”
“He used me.”
“Explain.”
Celeste looked at me.
“He isn't after your father's evidence anymore.”
“Then what?”
“You.”
My blood chilled.
“Why?”
“Because Arthur Bennett didn't steal Vittorio's money.”
She swallowed.
“He stole something much more important.”
Gabriel stepped forward.
“What?”
May you like
Celeste answered:
“His daughter.”
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