Chapter 3 - THE FIRE AND THE PIGMENT
Anna’s hand trembled as she reached for the locket. The silver was cold, the melted edge rough against her thumb. She hadn't seen it since she was four years old, the night her mother, Eleanor Morgan, pushed her out the back window of the gallery into a fireman’s arms before the roof collapsed.
"You knew my mother," Anna said, the words barely making it past the lump in her throat.
"Eleanor was my dealer," Elias said softly. "She was the only person in the art world I trusted. The only one who knew my real identity."
Anna stared at the old man. The pieces were slamming together with sickening speed. The rejection letters from every major gallery. The doors shutting in her face despite her stellar university record. It wasn’t bad luck. It was a blacklist.
"Blackwood," Anna whispered. "He made sure I couldn't get a job."
"He monitors everyone connected to that night," Elias confirmed. "He burned the gallery because Eleanor refused to hand over my final twelve pieces. He thought they were destroyed in the blaze. It took him five years to realize Eleanor had hidden them in a secondary vault, and another ten to track them down and steal them."
"And now he's trying to sell them," Anna said, her mind racing. "But he can't sell the originals because they implicate him. So he had them painted over, and he's forcing you to authenticate the top layer."
"Tomorrow night," Elias said, coughing violently. "Bellamy’s is hosting a private gala in the penthouse. A buyer from Dubai is flying in. Once I sign those certificates, the paintings leave the country forever. The evidence of your mother's murder disappears."
"You didn't sign them at the restaurant," Anna said.
"No. But they gave me twenty-four hours. Or they kill you."
Anna stared at him. "Me?"
"Preston didn't just break your phone for fun, Anna. They know who you are. They've always known." Elias leaned forward. "I slipped you that napkin to get you here, to warn you to run. You need to leave the city tonight."
Anna looked down at the locket. A profound, terrifying clarity washed over her. She thought of her mother. She thought of the twelve-hour shifts, the sore feet, the humiliation of Preston Blackwood’s hand across her face.
She wasn't going to run.
"Mr. Muski," Anna said, her voice dropping into a tone so cold it surprised even her. "I have a master's degree in art conservation. I spent four years learning how to strip centuries of grime, varnish, and overpaint from delicate canvases without damaging the original pigment."
Elias’s eyes widened. "Anna, no."
"The top layer is new," Anna continued, pacing the floor. "Acrylic or fresh oil. If I can mix the right solvent—a highly volatile alkaline compound—I can dissolve the forged layer in minutes. The original paintings underneath would be exposed."
"They are in a biometric vault in the Bellamy’s penthouse!" Elias argued, standing up despite his pain. "You can't get in."
"I worked there," Anna said, turning to him. "I know the service elevators. I know the blind spots in the cameras. If I can expose even one of those paintings in front of the buyer tomorrow night, Blackwood's entire empire burns."
Before Elias could answer, a massive, deafening CRASH echoed through the shop.
The heavy steel door at the back of the building buckled inward. Someone was taking a sledgehammer to the hinges.
Elias grabbed her arm. "They tracked me."
"Through what?" Anna panicked.
"Preston," Elias gasped. "He must have slipped a tracker into my coat when they dragged me out."
Another brutal strike hit the door. The metal screamed.
"Under the floorboards!" Elias shouted, shoving her toward a heavy Persian rug. "There's a tunnel to the subway tunnels. Go!"
"Not without you!" Anna grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the hidden trapdoor.
She hauled it open just as the steel door gave way with a sickening crunch. Flashlights cut through the darkness.
May you like
"Check the corners!" Preston’s voice barked.
Anna pulled Elias down into the damp, smelling darkness of the tunnel, softly pulling the trapdoor shut right as heavy boots pounded into the room above them.
