"Debating? You know the identity of a serial killer, and you don't know what to do about it? I really never knew who you were, did I?"
"I couldn't exactly go to the FBI with my information, could I?"
"Cut to the chase? Who's the artist?"
"Before I tell you, I have some conditions."
"I should have figured," he said shortly. "You never do anything for nothing, do you?"
"I need you to let me go when this is all over. Let me disappear, the way I did before."
Flynn stared at his father for a long minute. "Why would I do that?"
"Because you're my son."
"That doesn't mean anything to me anymore." Despite his harsh words, he wondered if that was really true.
"It means something to me. I never stopped loving you or your mother, Flynn, but I couldn't go to jail. I couldn't survive in a cell. I'm claustrophobic. I'd have been panicking from the second the doors clanged shut."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have been a thief. You could have run a legitimate art business, but you had to steal, sometimes right out from under someone's nose. What was it that drove you? Money, greed, excitement?"
"All of the above. It was money in the beginning. You know that my father was a painter, but that he died young. I was only fourteen when I had to start taking care of my mom and younger brother. We had no money, no food in the fridge, nothing. We were on the verge of being homeless. Then I went to a party at a rich kid's house and I saw a painting by Laraine Simone and another by Falcon Holt, and I thought how easy it would be to take them and sell them. I knew their worth because I knew art."
"You did it that night?" he asked, wishing he wasn't so interested in his father's history.
"No. I slipped into the house three days later when the family was at my friend's soccer game. The thrill of that theft was amazing. I found a friend of my father's, who ran a gallery, and told him the paintings had belonged to my dad, but we needed money. He felt sorry for me and asked me no questions. He paid me seven thousand dollars for both pieces. I told my mother I had made the money working after school. That paid the rent for the next several months. When that ran out, I looked for more items to steal. I got more daring and bolder the longer I did it. By the time I was in my twenties, I had developed a network of dealers to sell to. But I needed a front, so I opened the gallery."
"Did Mom ever know what you were doing?"
"She had no idea. I'm a very good liar," he said pragmatically. "I'm an even better thief."
"You also apparently have no conscience."
"I was stealing from rich people and selling to other rich people, and those buyers didn't give a damn about the provenance of the art. Their private collections were filled with stolen art. And sometimes I stole back from them, because they could hardly report the crime, not when they'd willingly bought a stolen painting in the first place."
"I don't know what you want me to say. You're a thief and a criminal, but what you did to me and Mom was even worse. You left us with nothing—you, the man who allegedly got into stealing because you wanted to take care of your mom and brother. What about your wife and son? Why didn't we matter? The government froze your assets. We lost the house. We ended up with nothing."
"I know that the first few years were difficult," he admitted. "But I started sending money to your mother as soon as I could."
His jaw dropped at that fact. "You never sent money."
"I made deposits into her banking account every couple of months. They looked like they were coming from the publishing house, who was buying her books."
He stared at his dad in amazement. "She told me a small press bought her books. Did she know you were the press?"
"No. I hired someone else to run the company. He published your mother's books, getting them into print and digital. He inflated the sales and paid her based on really good terms. Of course, he couldn't go too big or it might have drawn attention. I knew the feds were watching her. I assumed she was using some of that money to support you, Flynn."
He shook his head in disbelief. "And she never knew?"
"No."
"Or she didn't want to know," he said, thinking that sounded more likely as he remembered how his mom had told him she'd gotten fortunate in locating a press that could consistently sell her books. It wasn't a ton of money, but it kept her going, and she had helped him pay for his education. After that, he'd been on his own.
"We're not so different, you know," his father continued. "I've followed your career, Flynn. You go undercover, you lie to get what you need, you love the rush of adrenaline that comes from facing down fear."
"But I'm on the right side of the law; you're not."
"I didn't have the same kind of people in my corner that you did. You had Arthur Corbyn to look up to."
"He was just an illusion, too. He was buying stolen art from you before you disappeared and continued afterward. Did he always work through you?"
"No, after I left, he worked through Gretchen."
"So she was dirty this whole time. Stephen, too, I assume."
"They've helped me distribute art throughout the years, yes. It was the least they could do for me. They wouldn’t have that gallery if I hadn't started it."
All the pieces were falling into place, except the most important piece. "Who was the artist of the painting?"
"I need your promise first, Flynn."
"My promise could be a lie."
His dad met his gaze. "I don't believe it will be, if you're willing to make it."
"You're asking me to break the law."
"I'm actually just asking you not to enforce it. There's a difference."
"You're splitting hairs."
"I'm offering you a lead that could stop a serial killer. Isn't that worth one look in the other direction? Don't you offer assets similar deals?"
"You're not an asset."
"You could make me one. What's it going to be, Flynn? And think carefully because there are a lot of lives at stake, including yours. Including Callie's."
"I told you not to talk about her."
"But she's in the middle of this. If you want to protect her, then you need to make me a deal."
He'd always known love could make him vulnerable.
Another shock hit his heart.
He was in love with Callie. And he did want to protect her.
But could he really let his father go free?
"I have to get out of here, Callie," Juliette said, a plea in her eyes. "Can't you see I'm better now? Can't you tell Dr. Clarke that?"
Callie sighed. Flynn had dropped her off at the hospital on the way to meet his dad, and she had spent the better part of the last hour trying to keep her mother from asking about her release. She'd done her hair and her nails, talked to her nonstop about things from their past that would make her smile, doing everything she could not to discuss Arthur or his death or her discharge date. But now they were where she hadn't wanted to be, and she couldn't avoid the subject any longer.
"Dr. Clarke thinks you should stay here for a couple more days. It's not that long, Mom."
"That's easy for you to say. I'm the one trapped in here."
"I know it's difficult. But it's important that you get well, that you're stronger before you come home and have to deal with everything."
"But I should be dealing with everything. It's Tuesday. Arthur needs to be buried. What's happening with all that?"
"The medical examiner released Arthur's body to the funeral home yesterday. He was cremated this morning." It felt horrible to say that to her mother, but she had to give her the truth. "As you know, those were his wishes. I read through the trust and spoke to his lawyer, and that's what he wanted."
Distress filled her mother's eyes. "But I wanted to see him one more time."
"I'm sorry, Mom. But Arthur didn't want a viewing. He didn't want anyone looking at his body."
"I'm his wife. He wasn't talking about me."
"It's done. His as
hes were placed in a temporary urn. You can pick something else out when you're ready. As for a service, we can set that up for next week if you want."
"That's too long from now."
"It's not, and it's really best to wait. There's a lot going on with the investigation into Arthur's death. You're safer here than anywhere else."
"Why would I be in danger at home, Callie?"
She hesitated, knowing she would have to start filling in some blanks very soon, because her mother was asking more questions and getting more curious by the hour. She didn't want to destroy Arthur in her mom's eyes, but the truth would eventually come out. "It appears that Arthur bought some paintings that were stolen. Those stolen paintings are tied to his death."
"Stolen? Are you sure? Arthur wouldn't do anything illegal, Callie. You have to be wrong."
"I wish I was wrong, but I'm not. Yesterday, Flynn told you about the secret underground room in the Palm Springs house. Well, it's been determined that the paintings being kept there were stolen. That's why Arthur never told you or anyone else about the room. He didn't want you to know what he was up to."
"I can't believe it. It doesn't make sense."
"I know. Arthur didn't seem like the kind of person who would deal in stolen art."
"Was Gretchen involved? Was she his dealer?"
"I'm not sure, but I think she might have been."
"And someone killed him because of these paintings?"
"They're connected; I don't know exactly how. But the investigation is moving quickly, and the best thing we can do is stay out of their way. I know you want justice for Arthur, and this is how we get it."
Her mom let out a sigh. "I suppose you're right. But I could stay at your apartment, Callie."
She couldn’t tell her mother she wasn't even staying at her apartment; then she'd have more to be upset about. "You'll only be here another day or two, Mom. And then you'll be ready to deal with the funeral arrangements. You'll need to be strong to get through this."
"I wish I was stronger, Callie. You don't know how much I wish that. But something inside my brain switches off, and I'm filled with anxiety and depression."
"At least you can recognize that now. That's a good step."
"I thought I was doing well until Arthur died. I was doing a good job at work." She stopped abruptly. "I hope I don't lose my job. What have you told Victoria? Does she know I'm in the hospital?"
"She doesn't. No one knows. She told me to reassure you that your job is waiting whenever you feel up to it. But there's no rush."
"I should call her. Do you have my phone?"
"I left it at home," she lied.
"Can I use yours?"
"I think it's better if you wait until you're released."
"I feel like there's more you're not telling me, Callie."
"You need to rest, Mom. That's all you need to do right now."
"I am feeling a little tired."
"Then I'll let you sleep. I need to go into work myself."
Her mother frowned. "I know I don't make things easy on you, honey. I haven't been the best mother. You're always taking care of me instead of the other way around. I try to make it up to you, but then something happens, and I'm back where I started."
She was happy to hear her mother speaking objectively about her mental health issues. That was a good sign. "You're dealing with an illness, Mom, but we're going to get you well and keep you well. I know that Arthur's death is a terrible loss for you, and it won't be easy to get over or move past the tragedy, but I will help you."
"I know you will. You always do." Her mom paused. "Does Flynn still consider me a suspect?"
"No," she said, even though Flynn had never actually said that. But she had to give her mother some good news.
"That's a relief. I have to say, you seem awfully close to him."
She felt herself flushing as memories of her night with Flynn ran through her head. "We've become friends. Let's just leave it at that."
"I'm not sure I can leave it at that, considering the sparkle in your eyes. You like him, don't you?"
"I might," she admitted. "But there's a lot going on."
"There's always a lot going on, Callie. And you usually push love away in favor of all those other things. Maybe you should think about changing that habit. As devastated as I am about Arthur's death, I can't regret the love we shared the past year and a half. The same was true for your father. We had eleven years together. They weren't always easy, but there was always love. I don't want to see you end up alone."
"I have plenty of time."
"It's easy to say that, but it's not always true. Sometimes time is not your friend. Don't choose work over love. Don't choose me over love."
"Mom—"
"Don't even bother to deny it, Callie. I know I've been a burden. I'm going to try to stop weighing you down; I really will."
"You're not a burden. I love you."
"And I love you, which is why I will do what you ask. I'll stay here until Dr. Clarke says I'm well enough to leave."
"Thank you." She was relieved to see her mom willing to accept the help she needed.
"I think I'm going to sleep for a while. I'm feeling tired."
"I'll check on you later."
"Okay, and if you speak to Victoria, tell her I'll talk to her in a few days. I really want to keep my job, even though I know it will be difficult to go back to the museum after what happened there, but I like what I do. It makes me feel useful and even a little smart."
"You are very smart, Mom, as well as creative, something I'm pretty sure I got from you."
Her mother gave her a tired smile. "I'm just glad you didn't get my depression and anxiety and panic. It's exhausting and overwhelming."
"You're a warrior for fighting as hard as you do."
"You're the warrior. You fight for both of us. But one of these days I would love to be able to take care of you."
"You've done that, and you'll do it again. I have no doubt."
As her mom's eyes closed, she watched her sleep for a long minute, thinking what a beautiful and fragile woman she was. But she wasn't a killer. She hadn't killed her father and she hadn't killed Arthur. She knew that truth deep in her heart. She felt guilty for ever having had those thoughts. But going forward, she could be free of those doubts.
And maybe she'd find a way to choose love, because she'd already found the man she wanted to love.
Smiling to herself, she walked out of the room and headed downstairs. On her way, she texted Flynn that she was ready to leave the hospital. She waited around in the lobby for a few minutes, but she didn't get a text back. He must be tied up with his dad. She hoped that was a good sign. But she really didn't want to hang out where she was. She wanted to go home and change clothes. He would be annoyed if she left on her own, but what else was she supposed to do? And was she really still in danger on her own. It seemed like Flynn was the real target.
She waited another ten minutes and then pulled up an app and called for a ride. When the car was only two minutes away, she made her way out front. There were a couple of cars parked in the roundabout, so she moved down the drive, watching her app as the car made its way toward the hospital. While she was waiting, she opened her email on her phone, seeing more messages of condolence and offers to help, but nothing pressing. She was about to check her mom's email when a gray van pulled up right in front of her.
The side door opened, and then she felt someone come up behind her.
She was about to turn when an arm came around her waist, and something sickly sweet was pressed against her nose. It made her dizzy. She couldn't breathe. And then she was picked up and tossed into the van.
She bounced around on the hard floor as the van sped out of the parking lot. She struggled to stay conscious, to figure a way out, but her eyes were closing, and darkness settled all around her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Flynn had walked the length of the pier and back several times a
s he considered whether he could make a deal with his father. He wanted to solve Arthur's murder, but his dad was asking a lot. On the other hand, he and Callie had been targets, and while he had no doubt he could protect himself, the longer this went on, the more vulnerable Callie could be. She wouldn't let him watch her twenty-four seven, and what about when her mother came home?
As he returned to his dad, who had actually tossed his fishing line back into the water, he still wasn't sure what he wanted to do.
"You didn't used to take this long to decide anything," his father said. "You were so confident in your decisions."
"When I was young and stupid. You're asking a lot. You know that."
His father pulled his line back up and leaned his rod against the fence. "Do you think I would have come back, shown my face to you, if I didn't have a good reason?"
"I'm not buying that it's because you want to protect me."
"You don't have to buy it, but it's true."
"You want something else. You have another angle. You're always working a hidden agenda. What is it this time?"
"Someone killed my friend. Someone threatened my son and a woman I think is important to him."
"You're calling Arthur your friend?"
"Yes. And I'm not working an angle, Flynn. So, what's it going to be? You want me to walk away with what I know? Or do you want to make a deal?"
He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. "All right. Who's the artist?"
His father stared back at him. "I have your word you'll let me go?"
"I already said I was agreeing to your terms. Now it's your turn."
"The artist is Victoria Waltham."
His gut tightened at the unexpected answer. "What? Are you serious? How do you know that?"
"Because I saw the painting in her home six weeks ago."
"How did that happen? She wouldn't have just shown it to you."
"I might have been looking around her house without her knowledge."
He raised a brow in amazement. "You stole from Victoria?"
"She had something a client of mine wanted, something Victoria had acquired by not so legal channels."
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