Maya opens the door, and we step into the penthouse.
Something is wrong. I sense it immediately. I can’t say for certain what is off, only that I know it is. The air in the room feels unbalanced, like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, fearing someone might give me a shove.
We pass the kitchen, and I spot it—unfamiliar shoe prints in the flour. Too small to be the man in the closet downstairs, and Maya’s sole choice of footwear is fuzzy socks.
I lower Bella to the floor. “Why don’t you guys go start the movie? I need some water.”
“There are bottles in the refreshment fridge.” Maya yawns and waves in the direction of the kitchen. “Get us one, too.”
“Will do.”
Bella turns back, eyeing my agreeableness, and I shoot her a smile.
It’s a complete oversale, but she buys it. I think.
I follow them from a distance, ensuring they make it to the theater without trouble, then I peek into the library. The mess is still where we left it, whichmeans whoever is in here hasn’t made it this far or everything would be ransacked.
They are still here, looking for the painting.
I sneak down the hallway, listening for any movement that will give the thief away.
When I saw the burglar in the library holding Bella, I didn’t consider he might have had a partner. I should have. Thieves often do.
My jaw clenches. I made a mistake that could have cost me. What if the partner had taken the girls while I chased after the thief?So stupid.
I stop at the end of the hallway, peering out. The penthouse is dark, but there’s a flash of light in the office. Something tumbles to the floor, and there’s a mumbled grunt.
Stealthily, I move in that direction. The door is mostly closed, obscuring my view of the threat within.
Where’s that fake knife when I need it?
Another crash. They are going to break everything searching for the painting that’s not there.
I take a risk, stepping closer to the crack in the door.
“Where is it?” the semi-familiar voice hisses into the air.
I swing open the door and step inside. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
The woman jumps, screaming and flinging a file of papers out of her hands.
Mrs. Morrison.
The older woman clasps a hand over her heart, right next to the Victorian brooch pinned to her top. “Gracious, you startled me.” Her little act doesn’t fool me for a second.
“What are you doing here?”
Her beady eyes narrow, and she stands up straighter in a way she has no doubt practiced all her life to get what she wants. “Who areyou,and what are you doing here?”
“I’m a friend of the family.”
She huffs. “I know that’s not true. This family has no friends.”
“Now, I asked you first. Answer before I call the police.” I snatch the file from the floor.
“I was checking on the girls, of course.” She smooths a hand down her dark green pantsuit.
I drop my eyes to the documents—a file bearing Mrs. Eugenia Morrison’s name and the Vescari painting, along with the time and date of the illegal auction and an amount of money. “Or were you looking for something? A painting by chance?”
