It’s Liam.
“Tired of the city already?” I answer.
“On the contrary. We’ve just begun our tour, which is very riveting, by the way. Did you know the Empire State Building has its own zip code?”
I laugh. “I did.”
“America really is something. Anyway, we hit one tiny snag.”
“What’s that?” I wait, the smell of hot dogs from a cart making my mouth water at ten in the morning. When was the last time I ate?
“The painting.”
“What about it?”
“It’s a fake.”
A pigeon hops onto the ground near me looking for scraps, and its plight feels familiar. “What do you mean?”
“A very good one. But still a fake. It was replaced by someone who knows what they’re doing. I’m actually jealous. They had me fooled, which isn’t easy.”
I must have heard him wrong. The painting I spent over forty-eight hours looking for and trying to steal was a fake?
“Are you sure?” That can’t be right. No one got to that painting before me. No one… except Maya.
“Positive,” Liam says. “Maybe we got bad intel, and Mr. Hartwell bought a fake.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened.” I shake my head, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle into place. There’s something niggling at the back of my mind. “I’ll call you back.” I hang up and stand, needing to pace to work through my thoughts.
That woman. She had me going. A grin finds my lips. And here I thought she was perfect. She’s flawed… and that’s so much better.
Chapter 33
Soren
Ittookmeexactlytwenty-two seconds to locate Maya, thanks to the tracking app I had the foresight to download on her phone while it was in my possession. Call me obsessed… because I am. I refuse to lose her this time.
She’s not at the Hartwell’s, and she’s not at home. Unless she lives at Rockefeller Center.
I text Liam as I head north, following her movements on the app, watching the dot more than my surroundings. I roll my ankle and nearly run into a trash can, but still, I can’t take my eyes off that dot, terrified if I do, I’ll never find her again.
Why did she take the painting?
She always wanted to protect art, not steal it. There’s something else at play I’m missing.
The streets are bustling, and I weave in and out of people as I pass, searching the endless crowd forthe one.
My one. My woman of mystery.
What is she doing at the Top of the Rock? Her dot bounces around in place; she must be going up. I’ve seen enough off the edge of a building to last a while, but I go inside ready to risk it, anyway.
I don’t spot her dark hair or fuzzy socks in the crowd of people. She probably changed out of her fuzzy socks. Which is a shame, because I love them.
I take the elevator up with a half a dozen people, tapping my foot as if that will make it go faster. The elevator opens on the top floor, and I scan the small crowd.
Against the railing, facing Central Park, is a woman dressed in black, her dark hair braided down her back, arms hugging a bag to her chest. The top corner of the bag is unzipped, and a rolled-up paper peeks out. The one I jokingly assumed to be the Jonas Brothers.
She switched the paintings right under my nose, and quite honestly, I’m stunned. And even more attracted to her. But why did she take it? Her leg bounces, and she watches the horizon like it may disappear if she doesn’t keep an eye on it. She’s afraid.
