“She knows.”
Francesca’s eyes narrowed. “Knowswhat?”
“About me, that I painted the Bellini and Alessi.”
“Excuse me? How? Don’t tell me you’ve told her!”
“Of course not. But I also…I didn’t deny it. I mean, she knew. Like she tastes colors or something and she said she knew. She even knew about the Santini!”
Francesca shook her head. “That makes no sense. Even if she has some sort of art synesthesia, wouldn’t that mean she only knew the same artist created all those pieces, not that it’s you?”
Lucia ducked her head. Her heart banged against her ribs, hard and unsteady.
“Lucy, what did you do?”
“I may have invited her to my art studio,” Lucia blurted out in one breath.
Silence.
Lucia shifted, her thumb running along her fingertips.
Francesca blinked. “You did what?” she all but shouted.
Chapter 14
Honey vs. Vinegar
Penelope groaned and massaged her temples, trying to ease the headache that had set up shop in her skull since the moment she’d opened her eyes.
After leaving Lucia’s, she had driven home in a daze and spent the night tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. She’d half pummeled her pillow into submission—always a bad omen.
She rose and lumbered into the kitchen. Coffee first, coherent thoughts after.
She settled in her rocking chair on the patio with a cup of steaming coffee and gazed at her backyard—white and red azalea bushes, their flowers drooping, most of them already fallen. The colors on the sweetgum trees that lined the back and acted as a natural privacy fence were more orange than green. A squirrel chased another one up an oak tree, and round and round they went.
The mug warmed her fingers. The scent of roasted beans curled up to meet her like an old friend.
She closed her eyes, drawing in the earthy aroma and the faint crispness of fall that lingered under it, and a part of Penelope wished she could unknow what she had learned yesterday, even wishing she’d just kissed Lucia instead of asking the damned question that had unraveled everything.
She also wondered if she’d hit her head on the way there and forgotten, because what else could explain proposing a partnership with a criminal—a criminalcollective. Whatever that meant.
Whenever she thought of Lucia as a criminal, her stomach dropped, and not in the most pleasant way like just before their almost-kiss. It didn’t feel right. Lucia didn’t fit the criminal mold.
Neither did Penelope’s father, though, and that hadn’t kept him out of prison. And he was innocent, unlike Lucia.
Penelope’s phone sat heavy in her pocket, and her laptop all but called her name.
Neglecting duty wasn’t in her vocabulary. Moreover, this had to count as an emergency, even on a Sunday.
She should call, no, text Lucia—tell her to forget about it; she should tell Montgomery about the forgeries; she should inform their head of provenance; she should distance herself from Lucia and never talk to her again; she shoulddefinitelyreach out to her contact in D.C. about the Santini and alert them of possible fraud.
Yet she did nothing but sit there, the storm raging inside her becoming even more grotesque against the serenity before her.
A breeze stirred the branches, scattering a few brittle leaves across the patio stones. She didn’t move. Her grip tightened on the mug until her knuckles blanched.
Penelope flinched when her phone rang, and she fumbled it out of her pocket.
An unknown number.
