But Penelope wasn’t sane, not where this was concerned. Once she got her teeth into a puzzle, she’d work on it until all its secrets lay bare in front of her. Even if it made her bleed. The fact that it—somehow—involved Lucia made her even more relentless.
She fine-tuned the search terms, addingmissing person, because why not? This time, something pinged, her lips parted as she stared at the image on the screen.
Those dimples. She was a child, maybe thirteen or fourteen, but no doubt—it was Lucia. A missing child. Vanished, alone.
Grace Emerson.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, too fast, too loud. Her mouth went dry. Penelope’s head spun.
Back to searching for art again, this time under bothLucia RossiandGrace Emerson.
More results.
A twenty-year-old PDF from a defunct school district website. Grace Emerson, first place, middle school division. The winning piece?
A woman alone at sea, so hauntingly familiar in its brush strokes, she could almost taste it.
Penelope’s stomach twisted. This couldn’t be true.
Next, she found a brief write-up in a local paper. A mention in a grant proposal from a foster youth foundation. A name change petition archived in a legal database, tied to a Lucia Grace Rossi.
Penelope’s knuckles paled as she gripped the armrest, dizzy.
This isn’t just a forgery. It’s a career.
Nausea pricked at her throat. Her vision shimmered at the edges.
How did Lucia get involved in all of this? Worst of all, she ached—a pit in her stomach, like she lost something precious she never even had.
~ ~ ~
Penelope spent the next few days in denial, unsure what to do. Maybe she was grasping. Wanting to see a pattern that couldn’t be proven. Not yet. The painting by Grace—Lucia—wasn’t similar enough to tie it to the Santini piece. A lone woman walking on the beach.
And sadly, her own skill led to nothing, except giving her heart palpitations as she paced her living room, Fuller shooting her a baleful glare.
“Oh hush. Your life is so hard, I know.”
Fuller turned her back toward Penelope and continued sleeping.
Montgomery’s suggestion to keep in contact with Lucia popped into her head regularly, and a part of Penelope wanted to confront her, but she knew she couldn’t.
She had no proof. A name change wasn’t illegal, and saying, “Hey, isn’t your real name Grace Emerson?” sounded borderline stalkerish. No.
She could let it go. Ghost her. But that wasn’t her style, and the thought landed like a brick in her stomach. Worse—this wasn’t just a fragile friendship. There was a plan. Lucia and whoever she was working with were up to something. Penelope recalled her mental mapping of the museum.
Then all this business with theMadonnaand Valentina.
At first, she told herself it was about her father, and it was, at the heart of it. But the longer she stared at the threads leading back to Valentina, the more she had to admit: She wanted payback. It might not clear his name, but making Valentina pay, God, it would feel like justice.
But to pull it off, she’d need to keep her mask intact. And Penelope had never been good at pretending. She could be guarded, yes. Withdrawn. But not false.
She’d tried once when she took on the lead in a school play only because no one else knew the lines. It had been a disaster.
Penelope was too anchored in herself to fake it. And anything too different now would stand out to Lucia. Still, she was angry. Disappointed. Even though she kept reminding herself that she kept secrets, too. It wasn’t as if Lucia could’ve said, “I forge paintings and launder them through museums.”
Am I the target? Or am I the stepping stone?
Her stomach dropped.
