Chapter 3 - A Name Worth Stealing
Silas arrived at Beth’s office without an entourage.
His attorney, Gabriel Shaw, carried a leather portfolio. Silas carried nothing.
Saraphene noticed that immediately.
No flowers.
No gift.
No attempt to turn the meeting into something personal.
Nina sat beside her.
Beth remained at the head of the table.
Before anyone discussed the document, Saraphene placed her museum photograph between them.
“Who is he?”
Silas looked down.
His expression closed.
“Victor Rusk.”
“What does he do?”
“He oversees several businesses associated with my family.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Gabriel shifted slightly.
Silas did not look at him.
“He is my uncle. And until this week, he oversaw the acquisitions company’s shipping relationships.”
Saraphene pointed at Trent.
“They knew each other two years ago.”
Silas studied the reflection.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I knew they worked together recently. I didn’t know how long.”
Saraphene leaned back.
She could feel the old temptation to minimize, to make the people around her comfortable enough that they would keep talking.
She resisted it.
“You need to understand something. I’m not impressed by expensive explanations.”
Silas met her eyes.
“Understood.”
Gabriel opened the portfolio.
Inside was a document describing an eighteenth-century writing cabinet.
At the bottom sat Saraphene’s name and a reproduced signature.
Her old museum title appeared underneath.
Collections Assistant, Northbridge Historical Museum.
She felt cold.
“That isn’t mine.”
Beth placed a hand near the page.
“Neither the signature nor the certification?”
“Neither. That position didn’t authorize me to authenticate ownership. And the cabinet in that photograph isn’t the cabinet described here.”
Silas leaned forward.
“What tells you that?”
“The drawer pulls.”
She pointed.
“The museum cabinet had replacements on the lower drawers. The sale photograph shows original-style hardware across the entire piece.”
“Could it have been restored?”
“Yes. But the condition report should say so.”
Gabriel passed over another page.
It did not.
Saraphene read slowly.
Then stopped.
A phrase near the middle caught her attention.
“Surface abrasion consistent with prolonged institutional storage.”
She had written those exact words in a training exercise.
Not an official report.
A practice document saved on her old laptop.
Trent had copied more than a signature.
He had stolen her unfinished work and turned it into credibility.
Her throat tightened.
“How many are there?”
Silas looked at Gabriel.
“How many?” she repeated.
Gabriel answered.
“We have located six documents using your name. We’re reviewing the full archive.”
Six.
Six places where strangers might believe she had vouched for something she had never seen.
“What happens if someone claims I participated?”
Beth spoke before anyone else.
“We establish what you did and didn’t do. We preserve your original files. We work from evidence.”
Saraphene nodded.
Then she looked at Silas.
“And your business sold these things?”
“Two. The others haven’t transferred.”
“Were the owners legitimate?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
Silas’s silence answered before he did.
“Not carefully enough.”
Gabriel glanced at him again.
This time, Silas noticed.
“Let me finish.”
He looked back at Saraphene.
“I had reasons to question some transactions. I accepted assurances because questioning them would have threatened profitable relationships.”
No polished defense.
No claim that everyone around him was responsible except him.
She did not like him better for the confession.
She trusted the conversation slightly more.
“Then this isn’t just Trent.”
“No,” Silas said. “It isn’t.”
They agreed on practical steps.
Copies would go through counsel.
The disputed sales would be suspended.
No one would contact Trent on Saraphene’s behalf.
No one would use her to obtain information.
She would make her own decisions about interviews and cooperation.
When the meeting ended, Silas remained beside the table while the others gathered their papers.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“For which part?”
“For treating information about your life as something I could decide when to explain.”
Saraphene studied him.
Most men in her life apologized in ways that demanded reassurance.
He waited without asking her to make him feel better.
“Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
Outside, Nina walked with her to the parking lot.
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s accustomed to deciding what happens next.”
“Do you trust him?”
Saraphene considered that.
“I trust Beth.”
Nina smiled.
“Excellent answer.”
That evening, Ruiz called.
The gallery had preserved its security footage.
Trent had followed Saraphene into the service corridor less than a minute after she left the main floor.
Then he had waited near the staff exit.
The protective-order violation was no longer supported only by her account.
There were timestamps.
Images.
Witnesses.
Saraphene sat on the edge of Nina’s couch, feeling something dangerously close to hope.
Then Ruiz asked another question.
“Do you know a woman named Celia Hart?”
“No.”
“She says Morrison used her professional credentials too.”
Saraphene closed her eyes.
May you like
For eight months, she had felt alone inside one man’s cruelty.
Somewhere across the city, another woman had been trying to prove the same thing.
