Chapter 1 - The Girl They Put in the Van
“How can you tell from across the room?”
Dominic Rourke asked the question quietly.
That frightened me more than shouting would have.
Rain dragged silver lines down the windows behind him. Somewhere beyond the glass, cranes moved over Boston Harbor, lifting containers through the darkness. My head throbbed. My shoulder burned. Three strangers were watching me decide whether intelligence could accomplish what strength had failed to do.
“The reflection,” I said.
Dominic glanced at the painting.
“Explain.”
“The water reflects a church tower that wasn’t completed until forty years after that artist died. Whoever painted it copied a later photograph.”
One guard looked toward the other.
Dominic remained still.
“And the varnish?”
“Uneven fluorescence under your security lighting. That part is an educated guess. The tower isn’t.”
He studied the painting for several seconds.
Then he turned to the guard nearest the door.
“Call Mercer. Tell him to bring his equipment.”
The guard hesitated.
“Now, Silas.”
When the door closed, Dominic looked back at me.
“You understand that accusing your stepfather of passing counterfeit art doesn’t cancel his debt.”
“I’m not asking you to cancel it.”
“What are you asking?”
“Stop discussing me like I’m part of the invoice.”
Something changed in his expression.
Not softness.
Attention.
He pulled a chair toward the couch but left several feet between us.
“Tell me what happened tonight.”
So I did.
Not everything. I didn’t tell him about my mother’s old cardigan folded beneath my pillow or the envelope of emergency cash hidden behind a loose basement brick.
I told him about the study.
The five million dollars.
Arthur saying I could survive things Chloe couldn’t.
The security men.
Evelyn’s cloth.
When I finished, Dominic’s jaw had tightened.
“Did anyone touch you after you arrived here?”
“No.”
“Before?”
I looked at my shoulder.
Only then did I notice blood dried along my sleeve.
He reached toward the telephone.
I flinched.
His hand stopped immediately.
“I’m calling a doctor.”
“I don’t have insurance.”
“I wasn’t asking for a billing preference.”
For some reason, that nearly made me cry.
I hated him a little for noticing.
The doctor arrived before the art examiner.
Her name was Dr. Naomi Chen, and she introduced herself directly to me.
“Would you like these men outside?”
“Yes.”
Dominic left without arguing.
The guards followed.
Dr. Chen examined my shoulder, checked my breathing, and listened while I described the cloth. She recommended hospital evaluation because I had lost consciousness after chemical exposure.
I expected Dominic to refuse.
Instead, he brought my shoes.
At the hospital, nobody stood over me while I answered questions. Nobody called Arthur. A patient advocate explained my options and documented the injuries.
It was nearly dawn when we returned to Blackwater.
I had discharge instructions, a dressed wound, and the unnerving knowledge that the stranger with the worst reputation in Boston had allowed me more decisions in four hours than my family had in ten years.
An elderly man waited beside the painting.
He wore a tweed jacket and looked personally offended.
“The canal is wrong,” he told Dominic.
“I noticed.”
“Not that. The pigment samples. Modern composition.”
Dominic’s eyes moved to me.
I leaned against the doorway.
“Your appraiser had an unfortunate evening.”
The old man removed his glasses.
“Apparently.”
After he left, Dominic dismissed the remaining guard.
I should have been more frightened alone with him.
Instead, I was simply tired.
“Arthur said your agreement required a daughter,” I said.
Dominic’s face darkened.
“The collateral listed on the financing documents was an art collection called The Daughters. A private group of portraits.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Silas handled the collection arrangements. Arthur sent a message yesterday saying a daughter would be delivered as agreed.”
“He meant a person.”
“I understand that now.”
I searched his face.
“You expect me to believe this was a misunderstanding?”
“No. I expect you to understand that someone used my name to make you believe you had no way out.”
He placed a phone on the table.
“You’re free to leave.”
I didn’t touch it.
“Then why are there armed men outside?”
May you like
“Because someone delivered an injured woman to my house, and I don’t yet know who else is involved.”
For the first time, his reputation frightened me less than the possibility that he was telling the truth.
