Frank had positioned the curtains so that the sunlight couldn’t quite reachYoung Woman at Rest. The thermostat read70, which ensured an environment neither too hot nor too cold. A whir sounded from the direction of the ceiling vent above, which didn’t match the others. Had it been fitted with a humidifying device? The moisture in the air seemed to attest to that.
Up until now, there’d still been a chance Frank hadn’t been involved in the Triple Play. Emerson could have been lying. The clues they’d followed might have led them down the wrong path. But now he was looking directly into the face of the Renoir and the certainty that his uncle had stolen it.
The uncle he’d loved.
No person was perfect. He wasn’t. His parents hadn’t been. But back when he’d come to live with Frank and Carolyn, they’d both seemed as close to perfect as people could be.
Maybe it had made him feel safer to think that, and in those days, he’d needed a sense of safety in order to function. Maybe thinking that had just been simpler for him.
This painting testified to the fact that Frank had made a colossal mistake. Around the time of his wedding to Carolyn, Frank had placed his trust in a God who forgave even the most colossal mistakes. But if Frank’s faith had been genuine, why hadn’t he taken steps to make amends for his mistake? Why hadn’t he returnedYoung Woman at Restto Annette Pascal long ago? Without too much difficulty, Frank could have done so without incriminating himself.
Zander took a few steps back, to get a more distant perspective on the painting, and spotted an envelope on the coffee table. Written across it in Frank’s familiar handwriting was one word.
Carolyn.
Carefully, he picked it up. The business-sized envelope held a stiffness, the kind of stiffness that worked its way into paper as it aged.
He knew what to do about the painting. He’d leave it here until the FBI came to retrieve it.
But this letter? Frank had intended this for Carolyn and only Carolyn. If he left it here, the FBI would very likely take it. As the letter’s rightful owner, Carolyn deserved to open it herself and read it first.
He carefully folded it and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. After the FBI had custody of the painting, he’d explain everything to Carolyn and give this letter to her—
Someone knocked on the apartment’s door, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. Zander jerked. His chin whipped around.
“Zander?” Britt called from the hallway.
Terror contracted his heart.
Had Emerson learned of his trip here? Had she somehow gotten hold of Britt?
He ran to the door. Splaying a hand on its wooden surface, he looked through the peephole. As far as he could tell, Britt was alone on the other side. As he watched, she turned and moved in the direction of the next door.
His thoughts shot in a thousand different directions. He opened the door. “Britt.”
She whirled. He looped a hand around her arm and tugged her into the apartment. She’d probably only been in the hallway for a short time, but he felt frighteningly exposed.
All of his careful plans, his precautions on her behalf, were racing through his fingers like water.
They faced off. Him, shocked and rattled. Her, with a tight, accusatory expression on her face.
“How did you know I was here?” he asked.
“The tracking app on my phone. Remember? I connected your phone to it years ago. Before your trip.”
He’d forgotten. Pressure banded around his chest. He might be having a heart attack.Think, Zander.
“When Carolyn told me you’d taken Frank’s phone and keys, I knew that, at the very least, you’d deliberately kept that information from me. Then when I called you, I could tell you were lying. So I checked the app.”
“And followed me here.”
“I couldn’t find your car—”
“I swapped cars with Clint.”
“—but the tracking app showed me which corner of the building you were in. I started at floor one. I’ve been knocking on all the doors in this corner on every floor.”
Think. If he was going to protect her, he first needed to thinkthrough the dangers she may have brought with her. Then decide how to counter them.
