Delacroix pressed a button on his phone, changing the call to a webcam video feed.
I screamed. “No!”
Gagged with a cloth, with tears streaming down her face, was Haylee. A knife was at her throat, dragging along her pale skin, leaving a faint line of blood behind it.
“Please don’t hurt her!” I exclaimed. “This has nothing to do with her!” I jumped to my feet, Rhys’s arm coming with me, but sat back down when Stan pointed his gun at me again.
The screen changed to a view of Carl, admiring the trickle of blood on the edge of his knife.
“Look who we found in Florida,” he said with a villainous grin. “Your widdle baby sister.”
Tears filled my eyes as Rhys looked at me, realizing who it was on the phone.
“Guys, we don’t have to involve anybody but the people here,” Rhys said, trying to sound calm. I could tell he definitely wasn’t. “Please, leave her alone. We’ll give you the painting. We’ll give you every cent we both have. Just let her go.”
Carl shook his head. “If you tell us who you’re working for, your baby sister lives.”
Rhys and I exchanged looks.
Sorry, Sophie. You’re on your own.
Before Sophie’s name could escape my lips, a gunshot sounded from the phone, directly as the feed went dead.
“Oh my god,” I squeaked, sobbing into Rhys’s chest, gripping the material of his shirt.
My sister is dead, and it’s all my fault.
Even though my eyes were blurred with tears, I could see Delacroix trying to call back.
“He’s not answering his phone,” he said quietly.
Stan glared at Delacroix. “What do you mean he’s not answering his phone? What the fuck just happened?”
I sniffed, wiped some tears away with the back of my hand and watched their exchange. Something had happened. Carl wasn’t answering his phone.
Did something happen to Carl? Is there a chance my sister is safe?
A deep crease formed in Stan’s forehead. “Why do I surround myself with people who constantly fuck up?”
Delacroix glared at him again and kept trying to call Carl, to no avail. Stan took a book out of a nearby shelf and threw it at Delacroix’s head. Delacroix moved to the side just in time.
“Give it up, moron. He’s not picking up,” Stan yelled.
“Why do you let him treat you like that?” I said, looking up at Delacroix.
“Don’t say a fucking word, bitch,” he snapped back.
“You’re the one who brought the painting here. You’re the one who got in a damn boat chase to get it back. You’re the one who did all the work, and he’s being an asshole to you.” I shrugged. “I just don’t get it.”
Stan propped his elbow up on the arm of the chair, rolling his eyes. “Are you done?”
Delacroix slid his phone back into his pocket, blinking at us, wide-eyed.
“You’re getting most of the fee for the painting, right?” Rhys chimed in. “I mean, you did all the work. You should get at least ninety percent.”
He paused and thought about this for a moment. “We’re actually doing a sixty-forty split. With me getting … forty percent.”
Rhys winced. “Oh, boy. You’re getting screwed.”
Stan leapt to his feet and back-handed Rhys across the face, a spray of blood specks hitting my face and neck. “Shut the hell up.”
Rhys grunted and wiped his red, dripping nose on his shoulder.
I winced. My turn.
“That’s really too bad.” I smiled weakly at Delacroix. “You worked really hard for that money.”
Stan raised his hand up in the air to slap me but stopped when Delacroix spoke up.
“I did. I did work hard for that money.”
Delacroix took a gun out from his back pocket and aimed it at Stan, his chest heaving slightly. Rhys and I exchanged glances.
Stan reached for the gun in his back pocket, but Delacroix was too fast. Delacroix fired a bullet into his stomach. Stan didn’t even yell or moan as the bullet ripped through his flesh. He stumbled backward, glared at Delacroix and leaned against a chair as he sank to his knees. Stan clamped his hands over his stomach as blood oozed out between his fingers.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered, leaning his head against a chair. In one smooth motion, he slid a handgun out from his back pocket. Without even aiming, he fired the gun haphazardly and landed a bullet in the middle of Delacroix’s forehead.
Good shot.
Delacroix fell to the floor, just as Stan slumped down. A pool of blood had gathered on the carpet below him. He put his palms to the floor as he struggled for breath, the red bloodstain expanding beneath him. Finally, his chest and chin hit the flood and his eyes fluttered shut.
I kicked the gun out of Stan’s hand and across the room, not that he had the strength to fire a gun by now, but I didn’t want to take the chance.
We found a knife in the kitchen and cut the plastic ties off our wrists. With tears still blurring my vision, I ran as fast as I could after Rhys. Waves of fear crashed through my stomach, drowning out any sensation of relief. We got in the car and jammed on the gas, dirt spraying out from beneath our tires as we fled the scene.
Neither of us checked directions immediately. We just drove. We drove as fast as the car would go for about five minutes.
“I need to stop for a second,” he said quietly, pulling the car off the side of the road and jumping out. A trail of dry, crusty blood ran from his nose and down his chin.
He went behind the car, threw his head down and vomited.
As he retched behind the vehicle, my phone beeped with an incoming text from an unknown number. Usually the only unknown numbers I get texts from are Rhys.
Unknown: ? patch
It was Dad. My heart lurched in my chest. A sick feeling washed over me.
Molly: Punkin
Unknown: Are you alright?
Molly: Yes. Is Haylee safe?
Unknown: Yes. I have to go. Don’t try to find me or contact me. Be careful. I love you.
Molly: What?!
The text returned with an error message. And that was that. Dad was gone.
I was sobbing my head off by the time Rhys got back into the driver’s seat.
“We’re safe,” Rhys said, “we’re good now. We just have to get to Paris.”
I wiped tears away and took a few deep breaths. “Dad killed Carl.”
Rhys sat back, wide-eyed and still looking green around the gills. “Oh, shit.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Oh, shit is right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The journey between Amsterdam and Paris felt like it would last forever. Every time I nodded off, I jolted myself awake from a bad dream. Rhys’s eyelids looked especially heavy as the sun rose. We stopped for a coffee in Antwerp and kept driving. We were both quiet, too exhausted and shocked from the last couple days. Our two stops at customs were pleasantly brief and uneventful.
Just let us into your country. It’s not like we’re in possession of a priceless piece of stolen art or anything.
It was still early in the morning when we arrived in Paris. Rhys pulled the car into Sophie’s gated driveway but didn’t turn the engine off.
“I’m not going with you,” he said.
I took my hand off the car door. “Why not? We did this together.”
He shrugged, too tired to make any smartass comments. “I booked an earlier flight back to London. I’ve got to deal with some things.” He smiled weakly. “Sophie doesn’t like me anyway.”
I got out of the car and circled around the front to his door. “Come on.”
“Molly—”
“I want to hug you. I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” I said. “So, I want to hug you.”
Rhys slowly got out of the car and stood in front of me, just looking down at me for a moment. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t have the usual sparkle in his eyes. I slid my arms under his and put my head to his
chest. He folded his arms around me, pulling me closer to him. I have to admit—it was nice.
Rhys slowly dropped his arms before I was ready to let go. He got back in the driver’s seat. “Take care, kid.”
I gave a little wave as he drove away, my suitcase sitting on the right side of my feet and the suitcase holding the Picasso on the left. A tear crept out from the corner of my eye, and I furiously wiped it away with my sleeve.
Buck up, soldier. You’re not done yet.
Sophie was having breakfast in her fantastically elegant dining room when I pulled both suitcases in behind me. A green silk kimono-style robe dripped off the sides of her chair. Sophie had the grace and poise to make a robe look high fashion.
“Bonjour, Betty,” she said.
“Bonjour.” I nodded to the suitcase that contained the Picasso and smiled.
“Good work.” She put her morning smoke out in an ashtray and stood up, sliding her delicate feet into a pair of slippers. “I want to show you something. Bring the suitcases.”
I followed her back onto the elevator. Once the doors closed behind us, she pressed the flat metal panel under the floor buttons. To my surprise, it was a button too. The elevator traveled down to the basement.
“That’s so fancy,” I said in awe.
I was too tired to care that I sounded silly. Once the elevator door slid open, we stood in front of a door with a fingerprint scanner next to it. Sophie really had taken every precaution to secure this room. She placed her palm against the panel, and the door slid open.
The lights automatically turned on, but the long room stayed dimly lit. It was a very long hallway, maybe even the whole length of Sophie’s home. The walls were lined with paintings in ornate frames, protected by glass cases—one can only assume the bulletproof variety.
“This is my private gallery,” Sophie said. “Very few people have seen this place.”
That’s when I recognized the painting hanging just to the right of us.
“Holy shit.” I walked over to the painting and stared up at it, my mouth falling open in awe.
It was The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, painted by Rembrandt in the seventeenth century and stolen from the Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990.
“How … how did you…” Words escaped me.
A tiny, mischievous smile spread across Sophie’s lips. “You know it?”
“Of course I do,” I said, gushing pretty hard by now. “Rembrandt’s only seascape. One of the most famous stolen paintings in history.”
For someone in my field, it was like the Holy Grail. And it had been in Sophie’s basement all along.
“It’s been floating around Europe since the late nineties,” Sophie said flippantly. “I paid a pretty penny for it.”
The painting next to it caught my attention too—a yellow and gray mass of lines and shapes.
“I take it you like Picasso,” I said.
Yes, it was another stolen painting.
“I don’t like him. I love him,” she said, eyeing my suitcase. “May I?”
While she opened the suitcase, I took in the rest of her extensive gallery. Again, my jaw dropped at the priceless treasures she possessed.
“You have The Concert by Vermeer,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s incredible.”
Sophie unwrapped the plastic from around the Picasso. “Oui.” She held the painting up in front of her, nodding in quiet approval.
Looking at the genuine Picasso now in the hands of one of the leading forgers in Europe, I smiled as I thought about other forgers out there.
“What would you do if one of your paintings was copied?”
“My paintings aren’t worth anything, so that’s not going to happen,” Sophie said with a subtle smile. “Plus, I don’t make copies of paintings by artists who are still alive.”
I gazed down the length of the gallery again. “This is an incredible collection. But why keep them for yourself?”
I’d always wondered that, each and every time I’d been paid to steal a painting or a historical artefact for someone. What is the draw of keeping stolen treasure hidden away when the world should have the opportunity to see it?
“That is a weird question for you to ask, given your profession,” she said.
I shrugged.
She considered it. “Not everyone can appreciate this art. It won’t be kept down in here forever. I have the means to be the only one who can appreciate it, for now at least.”
“For now?”
“When the time is right, these paintings will be given to various art galleries. But for now, I will keep them safe.” Sophie put down her new Picasso, leaning it against a wall. “The galleries they were in could not do that. Otherwise, they’d still be there.”
* * *
I knocked on Ruby’s apartment door. It was the middle of the night, I hadn’t showered in days and I just wanted to go to bed.
Maybe Ruby will let me just sleep on her couch.
A half-asleep Grace answered the door. I’d definitely woken her up.
“Hey,” she said groggily.
Honestly, my voice didn’t sound much better by this point. “Hey. Ruby said she has a new key for me.”
Grace nodded and waved me inside. “Come in.”
Ruby had been kind enough to take care of my apartment stuff after Carl broke in and messed everything up, including replacing the door that he’d kicked in. I owed her big-time.
Of course, maybe we were even now, considering that stunt she pulled with that surprise double date.
I pulled my suitcase in behind me. I’d be happy to not be dragging this thing around anymore.
I stood awkwardly by the door while Grace riffled through some stuff on the coffee table.
“Ruby is sleeping off a bottle of wine this evening,” Grace said, “so I didn’t wake her up. I hope you don’t mind.” She handed me the set of keys.
Damn. Guess that means no couch surfing tonight.
“Thanks,” I said.
Grace sleepily crossed her arms over her chest. “Why didn’t you come back from your trip when you heard your home had been broken into?”
“Ruby said she had everything under control.” I shrugged. “It’s just stuff. Nobody was hurt, it’s not a big deal. One of the hazards of living in New York, I guess.”
Grace nodded, her eyes narrowing as she studied my face and my response. “Right. Yeah.” She seemed a bit more awake now. “I guess having your shit stolen isn’t a big deal when you’re a rich kid.”
I’m a rich adult, thank you very much.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like my stuff as much as the next person—”
“Your door was kicked in. A stranger went into your home.” She was thinking out loud, not necessarily talking to me. “Nothing seems stolen. You seem like you don’t even care that much. It’s just a bit unusual.”
I’m too tired for this shit. Can I just go home?
I shrugged. “I didn’t live there long enough for it to feel like my home, ya know?”
“No, I don’t know. I talk to break-in victims every day, and they all feel vulnerable afterward.” She paused. “But not you.”
I pointed at the door. “I should go—”
“I thought maybe you had feelings for Ruby.”
“I told you. I’m straight—”
“I know. You and Ruby are just friends,” Grace said. “But there’s something else about you that just seems … off. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s been bugging me since the moment I met you.”
You don’t say.
I smiled weakly. “I’m an undercover CIA operative, just like Claire Danes in Homeland.”
Grace’s expression didn’t budge as she opened the door for me. “Goodnight, Molly.” Her expression was deadly serious.
I rolled my suitcase down the hall to the elevator. As the doors slid closed, I rested my head against the shiny metal and squeezed my eyes shut.
Now I have a suspicious cop keeping tabs on me.
Fuck.
* * *
I woke up in the middle of the afternoon the following day, safe and sound in my own king-size bed. In my home. In Brooklyn. In New York. In the United States. In North America.
Rain poured down hard outside, tapping on the windows. New York’s summer dry spell had finally ended, and the break in the humidity was delightful. I pulled my sheet off my bare legs and looked over the side of my loft, down at the chaotic mess of the main floor.
Every piece of furniture I owned had been stabbed and ripped open. Every breakable plate I owned lay in pieces on the kitchen floor. Any box that I hadn’t yet unpacked had been turned upside down and emptied. Even my silverware drawer had been pulled out and emptied into the sink.
Did Carl really think I was hiding in the silverware drawer? Or was he searching for something else?
When I’d arrived home the night before, I walked past it all, crawled upstairs and passed out on my bed. My pillows, for the record, were also ripped to shreds. My mattress would have to be replaced. Even the quilt my grandmother made for me before I left for college had been damaged.
Son of a bitch. You didn’t need to stab my quilt from my nanna. I’m glad my dad shot you in the head.
After a shower, my first in a few days, I called my sister over Skype. I was worried about her.
Also, I wanted to avoid cleaning.
“Are you back home?” Haylee said. “Are you okay?”
I smiled. “I’m home. I’m fine.” It had been a long time since Haylee’s voice made it sound like she gave a shit about me. “Are you okay?”
She exhaled slowly. “I think so. Do you know where Dad went?”
I shook my head. “It’s probably better that we don’t know, at least for now.”
I wonder where he would go. I wonder if he’s ever killed someone before.
“Where are you now?” I couldn’t tell from the room Haylee was in.
“I’m back at rehab. I have a few more days left before Mom is picking me up.” Haylee looked over her shoulder. “Could you give us a minute? I gotta talk to my sister for a sec.”
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