“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” I scoff, pushing my bowl away.
Kim laughs but I can see tension lines between her eyes. “No. I’m glad your dad found it.” She looks at me. “Thatyoufound it. This is career-making stuff. Your dad is going to be very sought after in the art world once it has been verified.” Her eyes brighten. “I hope the MoMA will show it. I love New York.”
I sip my Coke. I still wonder why Professor Williams was making notes about the painting.Washe already losing it, like Kim suggested, or did hiding the fact that he had the portrait push him over the edge? If he got it on the black market he probably broke the law, so he could have been worried about getting in trouble.Or—an unwelcome thought pushes its way into my head—the curse is real and you’re the one who found it.
There’s more mumbling in the hallway, followed by Dad profusely thanking the appraiser. They pass the kitchen door, and we wait expectantly as Dad shows him out before coming to join us.
“Good news!” He beams, the kind of smile that you can’t help but return. Excitement replaces my brief moment of worry and I grin back.
“It’s real?” I ask.
“We won’t know for a week or two, but it all looks very promising. There’s still more to do, but there seem to be…ah…similaritiesin the paint that can be tested.” Dad pulls out a chair and slumps into it. “I can’t believe it, Fliss. How can I ever thankyou?”
“You would have found it without me,” I mumble, embarrassment washing over me. “I mean, it was right there.”
“Maybe.” Dad shrugs off his coat and shakes his head. “I wonder how long Tim had it? It doesn’t make sense for him to keep quiet about it, does it?”
Kim rehashes our conversation with Dad as I finish my drink, and I think again of the papers that were hidden in the painting. I should really tell Dad about them, but curiosity is getting the better of me. What if they’re about the rumors? Not the onesabout the curse—though if one painting was ever going to be cursed, then this is it—but the ones about a serial killer?
What if those papers could help me solve a real cold case?
I convince myself it won’t do any harm if I take a quick look at the pages tonight and hand them over in the morning before Dad leaves. They’re probably just the ramblings of a troubled old man, but they might shed some light on where he got the painting. A massive yawn escapes me, despite the caffeine I’ve just downed.
“Fliss? You’re really tired, aren’t you?”
“Carb coma,” I joke, sensing my excuse to escape so I can have a sneaky peek at the papers. “But yeah, I am shattered. I could do with an early night.” I toy with stretching my arms like a sleepy cartoon character, but that’s probably overkill. “You guys should celebrate.”
“We will do plenty of celebrating over the next ten days,” Dad says. “Actually, I’d better go and finish packing. What time does the program start tomorrow? I’m assuming Izzy will be hereearly?”
“Yeah, her train gets in round nine. The first session starts later than usual, so it isn’t until eleven. It’s just general introductory stuff, I think. You’ll still be here in the morning, won’t you?”
“We should be, but in case I don’t see her, I do need a favor from you both.”
“Dad, I promise we’ll look after the place. We’ve only planned two…no, three ragers while you’re gone.”
“Haha. I wasn’t actually worried about that.” He leans againstthe doorframe, muttering something that sounds like “but I am now” under his breath. “No, Alessandra is going to show the painting at the gallery tomorrow evening. There’ll just be a small crowd, mainly faculty, a few important people who make big donations. It’s too late for me to hire enough waitstaff, so I wondered if you two would pitch in? It’ll just be for a couple of hours, serving canapés and collecting empty glasses, nothing too taxing.”
“Is this a paid gig?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. Dad laughs.
“I’m sure I can slip you some cash given the circumstances. You’ll just need a white shirt and black skirt or pants.” I furrow my brow, knowing I didn’t pack any of the above, but Kim comes to the rescue.
“I have a plain shirt and skirt that should fit you, Fliss. I’ll leave them out for you.”
“Oh, thanks. Well, count us in, then.” I stand up and stretch, yawning for real this time. “I’m going to go and let Izzy know that she should pack something uniform-y. See you both in the morning.”
“Night, Fliss.”
I walk past the painting—now covered in a cloth, thank god—and open my bedroom door. I stick my phone on charge near the dressing table, fire off a text to Izzy about working tomorrow and then another one to Mom, who still hasn’t seen my last message. I check the world time on my phone—it’s just past six a.m. in Sydney, and I bet she’ll be jet-lagged for days. I’m still gutted that I couldn’t go with them, but I am glad I didn’t miss the wedding.
My phone chimes, and I grin at Izzy’s response, which is justa long line of dollar signs. I feel under the bed for my notebook and pull it out before cocooning myself in the brand-new duvet. I try to focus on the untidy handwriting, but it proves too much for my tired eyes, and they start to flutter. I push the whole thing under my pillow and close my eyes, just for a second, promising myself I won’t drift off.
FIVE
I run down the stepsfrom the front door in my bare feet. “Izzy!” I scream, throwing myself at my best friend as she walks up the path, carrying a huge sports bag and dragging a carry-on suitcase behind her. “You’re heeeeeeere!”
Her eyes light up. “I am!” She grins and squeezes me back, a patented Izzy-bear hug. “Blackwood has not changed one bit, has it?”
Her face falls a little and I know she’s thinking about her dad. Izzy is a Blackwood brat too—her dad taught math here when we were little, and it’s the fifth anniversary of his death in a couple of months, so I know she’s been anxious about coming back.
