Penelope panted as she shut her front door, her skin prickling with leftover sweat, thighs aching from the final uphill push. She crossed the foyer in quick strides and disappeared into the bathroom to turn on the shower.
She wasn’t much of a runner, though every now and then she punished herself with a jog through a nearby park—like this humid Sunday morning. While not unbearable, the Atlanta air had clung to her skin like a wet towel, especially toward the final stretch.
Lucia had texted her earlier, asking for a rain check on their weekend plans: “My Italian friend needs me.”
Penelope hadn’t pried, but she knew exactly what that meant. She also understood Lucia’s loyalties, given that she’d promised to finish the job, yet it still filled her with frustration that this had to be so dangerous.
Of course, Lucia had been living this life for close to two decades, and it was hardly the first time she’d done something so risky. None of that meant Penelope had to like it—and she most certainly did not.
She might have said she was out—done with chasing Valentina—but that didn’t mean she could stop caring. Especially not now. Not when it was Lucia stepping into danger. And knowing that they planned not only to go after Valentina but also to hit her warehouse left Penelope restless—crawling with as much anxiety as a picnic blanket covered in jam and red ants.
Then there was her father. Was it even fair to judge him so quickly? Of course, there had been a trial.
Penelope had gone for a run to shake off her nerves. Now she was exhaustedandlosing her mind.
She’d considered calling Montgomery to casually ask about the status of theMadonnainvestigation, maybe feel out what the museum knew. But she’d shut that down fast. Montgomery already had an eye on her, and the last thing Penelope needed was to draw more attention to herself by asking the wrong questions at the wrong time.
Instead, she settled on her couch and texted Valentina.
I have questions about my father. You owe me at least that much.
She truly wanted to know, but even more so, Valentina liked to talk.
And indeed, five minutes later, her phone rang with an unknown number. How theatrical.
Bracing herself as if about to enter battle, she answered. “Hello?”
“I do not understand how you can sincerely believe thatIowe you, given all I’ve done foryou, darling,” Valentina said in lieu of a greeting.
Penelope rolled her lips. Of course, she’d open like this—everything was a performance. She idly wondered about what lived beneath that veneer of posturing, this eel-slick act.
“You said that you liked him.”
“I did.”
“Was that because he helped legitimize more of your stolen and forged art?”
“Who’s been whispering such tales into your ear? For the record, forgeries are more Francesca’s domain. You’ve met her,haven’t you? And her little forger? Quite talented, I must admit—but sadly, far too predictable.”
Penelope didn’t interrupt, but the certainty with which Valentina said it knotted in her stomach.
“I hope you’ve not been telling tales on me, Dr.Blackwell. That would be quite rude.” She paused. “And disappointing.”
Penelope clenched her jaw to prevent herself from saying something she shouldn’t, especially since Valentina could get her into trouble. Playing nice was making her itch.
“I called about my father. I want the truth.”
“The truth? That’s a big ask. Doesn’t the truth always depend on the eye of the beholder?”
“Beauty, Valentina. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Hmm, perhaps, butchi dice la verità è sempre odiato.”
“I don’t speak Italian, but you just said something about truth?”
“Those who tell the truth are always hated.”
Penelope’s lips pressed together. “I didn’t realize you cared about my opinion of you.”
