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Audrey laughed and gave her a hug. “Give us a call if you need anything.”
“I will.” She locked up behind them and crawled into bed, determined to not give Ezra any more space in her mind.
Ezra hadn’t slept.He’d fucked up four different pieces he’d tried to complete for orders. His bad mood was then compounded by his sister pestering him.
He felt her presence in the studio even though she hadn’t said anything. He’d been pretty sure the last time he’d yelled at her would’ve been enough to keep her away. Apparently, he was wrong.
“What do you want, Bronte?”
“You got a package.”
He looked over his shoulder where she held a large brown envelope. He didn’t remember ordering anything that would show up in an envelope. Probably fancy junk mail. “Toss it on the desk.”
“You sure?”
He glared at her.
She held up one hand while keeping the envelope pressed to her chest with the other. “It came via courier with no return address. It’s either super fishy or super special.”
Her statement had him thinking of London. Again. He’d had those suspicious feelings about her and he’d ignored them. He growled and then said, “Desk.”
“Fine. Whatever. At some point, you need to talk about whatever has you so messed up. It’s not healthy to keep it bottled up.”
He knew she meant well, but he couldn’t admit to her that he’d been as gullible as their father. At least he’d figured it out before he lost everything. His heart was a little dinged up, but he’d get over it. He turned back to the flames, and his sister went to the front of the store.
After managing to finally get a vase done to replace one that was purchased from the window display, Ezra felt a little better. His brain was coming back online and things would get back to normal.
He owed Bronte an apology for his excessive attitude, so he decided to buy her lunch. In his office, he called their favorite pizza place. After he placed his order, he looked at the envelope Bronte had left on his desk.
He picked it up. The handwriting was neat but nothing special. No return address as she’d said. He ripped open the flap and a file folder slipped out. A typed note was attached to the top:
You don’t know me, but we have a mutual friend. She meant you no harm and what she said was the truth. Look through the folder and connect the dots yourself. The project created in your shop broke and she has no way to replace it, so you no longer have to worry about being attached to it.
What the fuck was London doing now? He sat down and opened the folder. Inside he found a set of articles about recent forgeries. He’d been right. Part of him wished he was wrong and he’d overreacted. This was proof that she was a forger.
He was about to toss it on the desk and get back to work when another list caught his eye. It was a simple spreadsheet with names and amounts. The title of the page was Victims of Benson and Towers.
Those names hit him hard. He knew his father’s losses were nowhere near as bad as others suffered. They were helping those victims? It explained a lot—why London had asked so many questions about his father, why she showed up at his studio.
He rubbed his beard and went back to the top of the pile and read the articles. By the time the pizza arrived, he was thoroughly confused. If he connected the dots correctly, it seemed that London was creating forgeries and selling the originals to give the money to victims of the Benson and Towers scam. There was no way she could be doing it all herself. Was there really a friend who sent him this information? And why?
“You opened it!” Bronte screeched from behind him with the pizza in hand. “What is it?”
He quickly folded everything back into the folder.
“Seriously? You bribe me with pizza for lunch and then you won’t tell me what was delivered viacourier? Like that’s not suspicious.”
He blew out a long breath. This was Bronte. He could trust her. And she wasn’t likely to drop it anyway. Pulling out his phone, he said, “The other night, I found this article.”
He handed her the phone showing the article about the tree topper going up for auction.
“That’s London’s thing.”
“Yeah. So I confronted her about forging a copy. I didn’t know what her plan was, but I knew it was something shady. When I saw this, it pissed me off. She used me. Lied about what she was doing...”
Bronte flipped the lid on the pizza box and took a slice. “Well, in her defense, it’s not like she could come in and say, ‘Hey, I want to forge some priceless piece of glass.’ She did say she was making a replica.”
“For her mom. Another lie.” He shook his head. “When we were stuck here during the snowstorm, I saw her sketchpad with some copies of famous paintings. She said she used them for practice. Then, at her place, she was painting a copy and mentioned it was a commission. This article was what put it together for me.”
