Silence.
“This is terribly awkward.”
Penelope laughed. “Yes, but we’re talking.”
“Yeah. We are.” Lucia sat down on the bed. “So, how have you been? Any news on your front? Any issues there?”
“Perhaps, but it all relates to what I want to discuss with you guys.”
“Makes sense. And…on the personal front?”
“Not much. While you were lost in your head, I delved into research. Working helps when…things aren’t what I’d like them to be.”
“How would you like things to be?”
“Not silent.”
Lucia closed her eyes. “Yeah. That was on me. I’m truly sorry.”
“I didn’t say that for you to feel bad or apologize. I just… I want to be honest and… This isn’t easy for me. My natural instinct was to walk away and make peace with it by letting go.”
Lucia froze. Her heart seemed to halt before galloping away. Would she have lost Penelope if she’d waited just one more day?
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she croaked after a beat.
“Me too.”
Chapter 27
Decay
Penelope blew air onto her steaming cup and turned on her computer.
Before Lucia’s call, she had struggled to concentrate. Research and work came in bursts, not in the deep, focused stretches she’d always prided herself on. Her ability to tune out everything and lose herself in whatever project had never failed her before.
Until Lucia.
After their conversation had reestablished some of their equilibrium, Penelope dug deeper into her research regarding Belgrave Trust and Whitfield. After all, the more she knew, the better prepared she’d be for her upcoming meeting with Francesca.
Her father’s notes acted like breadcrumbs, and as she followed their trail, Penelope uncovered evidence of donor laundering and what even looked like back-channel meetings involving a Jacqueline Lewis. Penelope had no doubt this was the same Lewis that Montgomery had mentioned, considering all the oddities surrounding her.
That had led her further down the rabbit hole, toward a suspicious recent admission tied to Belgrave:Stillness in Decayby Élaine Lejeune. A piece last seen in a private estate inventory in 1956 and long presumed missing, it had recently resurfaced—donated by Belgrave.
However, it had been flagged due to several inconsistencies, though a final verdict had not yet been rendered.
Penelope logged into INTERMUSE again, searching for Lejeune’s recognized works—underrecognized in her lifetime for being a woman who refused to commercialize her art. Several of her works had vanished during wartime transfers and estate dissolution, but there were three pieces widely recognized as authentic.
Penelope loaded the authenticated images and pushed them to her large screen, lining them up for side-by-side comparison.
She sat back, the leather chair creaking beneath her as the glow of the screen lit up the dim room, reflecting faintly in the glass of a nearby cabinet.
She clicked open the file forStillness in Decay. The image loaded slowly—and when it did, she went still. Her heart gave a strange lurch.
An intimate, shadow-heavy oil painting of a woman seated in a high-backed chair, her face obscured by her own hand. The subdued palette contained cool grays, smoky mauves, with a muted glint of silver thread in the background drapes.
Belgrave had donated the painting six months ago. The provenance had seemed shaky to some, and rightfully so, for whoever painted this version ofStillness in Decaywasn’t Lejeune. The taste was wrong—too flat, too metallic.
To Penelope’s utter relief, it also wasn’t Lucia—the colors didn’t sing the same notes, didn’t carry that soft acidity Lucia’s work always left on her tongue.
