She had to see it through.
Penelope needed the world to see Valentina for what she really was.
She leaned back, rubbing her eyes, and went over the provenance records again. The dates were off, but, back then, the names hadn’t meant anything.
Now, after Tim’s update the other day, the pattern was clear: Belgrave Trust kept appearing at the perfect moment—bridging gaps in provenance just long enough to sanitize shady ownership.
Always tidy. Always just enough.
Too perfect to be chance. Too consistent to be clean.
And there—Barry Whitfield’s signature, bold and undeniable, on the forged provenance papers that had placed theMadonnain the Meridian.
She’d seen it before, had skimmed right over it when it had meant nothing beyond a possible connection to Belgrave.
Now it blared like a siren. How did it take her so long to tie this together?
Whitfield hadn’t just been adjacent. He’dsignedthe paperwork.
This was no loose operation. It was a well-oiled machine. And Penelope, by choice or not, was already entangled.
Francesca had shown her what remained of the records: theMadonnahad once belonged to her family—until Valentina stole it.
But how had Valentina gotten access? Surely, Francesca hadn’t stored the painting and the documentation in the same place.
This was more than a burglary.
Especially since Valentina hadn’t loaned the painting until last year. What had she done with it in all these years? Hung it up in her study and gloated?
A breeze drifted through the half-open window, fluttering one of her papers to the floor. She didn’t pick it up.
Nothing about this timeline made sense. Maybe it was about infrastructure. Timing. Or maybe it was personal.
Or maybe it had never been just about the painting.
Penelope’s fingers drummed on the desk.
Fuller jumped into her lap.
“Hey, girl. What are we going to do, hmm?” She stroked her soft fur, letting the purring soothe her.
There was something Francesca hadn’t told her. Why was theMadonnastolen in the first place?
Next time, Penelope would demand real answers.
Maybe the Collective knew Whitfield. Belgrave Trust couldn’t possibly be news to them, considering it looked like a criminal mirror of Francesca’s own Collective.
A group Francesca had pulled Lucia into.
Lucia—an adult with free will.
Not back then.Not when she’d been a teen lost on the street.
Penelope pulled out the little sketch Lucia had doodled—Penelope playing with Fuller. Lucia had wanted to throw it out. Penelope had snatched it, aghast.
It was ridiculous. Cartoonish. Fuller looked alive, chasing a string.
God, this was driving her mad.
