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‘The Wilsons,’ I only manage those two words, but it’s all I need. Becker nods his head, and as if I need the horror story to continue, he goes on.
‘I know it was Brent’s father. He killed my mum and took the map.’
‘How do you know?’ I whisper, worried.
Becker watches me closely, doubling my worry, because right now he’s monitoring my face for a reaction to what he’s going to say next.
I step back, swallowing. ‘How?’ I ask. I’m ready.
‘Because my dad stole it back.’
Or not ready. ‘Oh God.’ I grab the nearby clock for support, but my evident shock doesn’t hold him back. He’s on a roll now, bombarding me with it all.
‘After Mum died, Dad may as well have been dead, too. He was ruined. Consumed by guilt. The police put it down to a tragic accident. Case closed. They refused to look into any of the evidence we gave them.’ His lip curls at the mention of the police. ‘Dad went away for a while. Said he needed to be alone. That’s what he told me and Gramps, anyway.’
I look at him in silent question.
‘He followed Brent’s father to Florence.’ He speaks with a hatred that’s terrifying. ‘Why do you think Brent’s father was in Florence, princess?’
Fuck me, I’m shaking, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. ‘Because the missing piece of map includes Italy. Florence is in Italy. The garden of San Marco was in Florence.’ I mumble it all mindlessly. ‘And the Garden of San Marco is where the Magnificent discovered Michelangelo’s talent for sculpting. Brent’s father was taking an educated guess without the missing piece of the map.’ Good bloody God, this is getting more real by the word. ‘But there’s Rome, there’s Bologna, there’s Venice. Michelangelo travelled with his commissions.’
Becker nods his agreement. ‘I told you. They’re amateurs. I spent three years between the three cities and found nothing. Dad tracked Brent’s father to Florence. Found him chasing his tail. He stole the map back and posted it to me.’
I drop my eyes to the carpet, trying to rummage through the chaos in my mind, trying to get it all straight. That missing piece, so small but so significant. Head of a Faun can’t be found without it, if it even exists. It might not exist. Chances are it doesn’t. But only the missing piece can clear up the mystery. I consider, just for a moment, whether I should tell Becker that I know where he’s hiding the map. The words tickle the tip of my tongue, but I suck them back. His mother and father died because of that map. I can’t blame him for wanting to keep it secret and hidden, if only for his own sanity.
‘That was the last we heard from Dad,’ Becker exhales and takes his fingers under his glasses, rubbing into his eye sockets. ‘Then the Italian authorities found him.’
I blink my wide eyes, my mouth drying up. ‘Mugging gone wrong,’ I whisper, everything falling into place. I need to sit down. My legs are wobbly, and my head could explode with information overload. Stumbling across his office, I land in a chair with a thud. The families’ rivalry, the hate, the suspicion, the ramifications of it all.
‘No police help again,’ Becker grinds on. ‘The only thing that would have brought my father back to life after my mother died would have been finding the missing piece of the map and finding the sculpture. It gave him the purpose he needed. He felt she died for nothing.’
I get that, but more frightening is the fact that Becker feels the same as his father, except probably on a more intense level. He’s lost both of his parents. He has double the resentment. And old Mr H’s fear is now all too reasonable. He doesn’t want to lose his grandson – his only living relative – like he did his son, daughter-in-law, and his own wife, albeit in different circumstances. But it all boils down to that map. Mr H is prepared to sweep all of the awful circumstances under the carpet, try to make peace with the Wilsons, in order to keep his grandson safe from the curse of the map? No wonder he was so mad with Becker when he found out he’d conned Brent. Becker’s lied to him. He promised his gramps he was letting it go, but he did that to protect the old man. My Lone Ranger wanted to find that sculpture to avenge his parents’ deaths and to fulfil his dad’s wish. He wanted to do it with no risk of further heartache to his grandfather. So he closed himself off, limited any emotional attachment to his gramps, and anyone else, for that matter. My poor, vulnerable, complex man.
‘The Wilsons are the immoral ones here, princess. Not me.’ Becker’s eyes cloud over. He goes to his desk and slumps in the chair, his tall body reclined back. He looks so tired all of a sudden, worn down, as he pulls something from his pocket and studies it, soon becoming lost in a daydream. ‘She was so beautiful,’ he says quietly, taking his index finger to his top lip and brushing lightly from side-to-side, deep in thought. ‘My dad worshipped the ground she walked on. Was broken when he lost her.’
