“I told him about your plans.”
Penelope’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the phone. She probably shouldn’t have shared that, but there were files she needed, and she’d only get them through her father.
“It’s not worth it, sweetheart. Your dad agrees. He made his choice. You shouldn’t take such risks. Think of your life, your career.”
“I thought life was more than work?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Penelope rolled her lips. “I’ll be careful. I’ve got to go, Mom. Talk later.” She ended the call, unable to stomach the conversation any longer.
She hated the loop she and her mother seemed to be stuck in, and how they both circled around her father, a situation neither could stand nor escape.
Penelope stepped back into the kitchen, opened her air fryer, and grabbed the pizza slice. She sat at her kitchen table and listlessly picked at her food.
Fuller snuck around her legs before jumping on the chair next to Penelope; her yellow eyes locked on the plate.
“You don’t eat pizza. We’ve tried that already.”
She nibbled at her slice, her mother’s words ringing in her ears, joined by a memory of sitting in the gallery’s courtyard as a girl, her father explaining how every brushstroke carried intent, how good art breathed, lived, and could make a home in your soul. He’d smiled that day, and she tried to use such memories to drown out the look of sorrow etched across his features at the end of the trial that stole him from her.
Yes, life was more than work, and it wasn’t that Penelope had no interest in other avenues, but for the last two years, she’d just been…stewing—in sadness, in despair, in rage—until she hit the books and went down one rabbit hole after another. All in the quest to prove her father innocent.
For the longest time, her digging turned up little more than mismatched dates, altered names, trails that started but led nowhere.
Still, she could feel a pattern just out of reach.
Along the way, she learned more about the city’s art underbelly than she ever wanted to know, including its most infamous player, Valentina Varnelli.
Her research didn’t go unnoticed. Before long, one of Valentina’s men had delivered a threat wrapped in an invitation,insisting she meet the woman herself. Penelope still recalled the knock at her door late at night, an envelope heavy with implication, and the shiver of anticipation when she’d opened the letter.
She’d said yes. Because wasn’t that the next logical step? But these things always came with a price.
Now, positioned as a consultant of sorts for Eris Group, Penelope was tolerated more than trusted. The arrangement was never formal, never written down, but Valentina had made sure it felt like an obligation, requesting assessments and evaluations, off the books, naturally.
For Valentina, having the curator of the Meridian in her pocket—or believing she did—offered a veneer of legitimacy too useful to pass up. For Penelope, the arrangement meant proximity, and proximity would lead to answers.
If she could trace the forged papers that had landed her father in prison back to Valentina, maybe she could restore his name. Maybe she could finally prove he wasn’t the villain they’d made him out to be.
She also knew Valentina likely only kept her closebecauseof her father. Whether it was suspicion, curiosity, or the sheer pleasure of bending another Blackwell to her will, Penelope couldn’t yet tell.
But she could handle herself.
Much like Penelope could read art, noticing incongruities others missed. Like how the artist of the supposed Alessi painting had also created the Bellini piece. Oh, she had no tangible proof—the story of her life, of her father’s life—but she felt it in her bones. The same energy went into each brushstroke, the same meticulous eye for detail, and most of all, the same essence, the same longing for something just out of reach.
She shook her head.
People always called her insane when she told them that art spoke to her, unable to grasp what she meant. To be fair, she struggled to explain it.
She heard of people with synesthesia, and maybe that was the case for her, too, because colors had flavors and moods. Each artist left behind a unique bouquet of flavors. They were like fingerprints or snowflakes, unique, mesmerizing.
Penelope might not knowwhopainted Lucia Rossi’s “discoveries,” but she knew it was the same person. What she didn’t know: Lucia’s role in it. Was she the person Valentina had warned her about? She might be an unwitting pawn in someone else’s scheme—or fully complicit.
Penelope needed to know.
For now, she would let it play out. She’d watch and take notes. People told on themselves one way or another. Humans were funny like that. Most of the time, you didn’t even need to set a trap—they’d walk right into one of their own making.
Time would tell, and in the meantime, Penelope would continue her work and watch. She’d keep her distance.
