Page 45 of When You're Lost
Eleanor nodded at his side, hands in her jacket pockets.She looked every bit the refined art expert she was, but tension lined her posture.“I hope he can tell us something useful,” she murmured.
“And give us something concrete on Harrison Blackthorn,” Finn muttered, stepping onto the front path.The yard was small, the grass unkempt.A battered sign by the door read A.R.A.M.S.in faded letters, perhaps leftover from some freelance business venture.“Ready?”
Eleanor gave a brisk nod.“Let’s see if he’s home.”
Finn rapped on the door, three firm knocks.No answer.He tried again, louder, then leaned an ear to the wood.Silence, except for a faint groan of the house settling.He glanced at Eleanor, who shook her head.
“One more try,” she said.“Ely, it’s Dr.Matthews and Finn Wright from the Home Office!We just want to talk!We’re not here to arrest you,” she called through the door.Nothing but the whisper of wind responded.
Finn tested the knob—locked.He peered through the nearest window, cupping his hand around the glass to block reflections.The interior looked dim and cluttered with scattered boxes.“We might try around back,” he suggested.
They circled the house, stepping gingerly over broken paving stones.In the small backyard, an aging wooden fence sagged, and a shed door hung ajar.The back door to the house itself was slightly open, as though someone had left in a hurry or was too nervous to fully secure it.
“This is suspicious,” Eleanor breathed.She eased the door open further.The hinge squeaked in protest.“Ely?”she called, carefully stepping inside.The musty aroma of old carpet and stale air enveloped them.
Finn followed, flicking on a small flashlight from his coat.They stood in what appeared to be a cramped kitchen.A half-eaten sandwich lay on a plate next to the sink, the bread gone hard, as if abandoned days ago.A sense of disquiet rippled up Finn’s spine.“He left in a hurry,” he said softly.“Or he’s still here, just… unwilling to show himself.”
They moved into a narrow hallway lined with dusty family photos and abstract prints.The place was in disarray—cupboard doors half-open, a couple of cardboard boxes near the stairs as if someone had started packing.“Ely?”Finn called again.“We just want to talk about the paintings.No trouble.”
Eleanor checked a side room—empty, with a desk piled high in battered art books.“Nothing,” she whispered, voice echoing faintly.
Finn’s flashlight caught a glimpse of a folded ladder descending from a ceiling hatch near the upstairs landing.His pulse ticked up a notch.“Looks like an attic entrance,” he said, gesturing.“Let’s see if he’s up there.”
Eleanor nodded, trailing him up the stairs.The second-floor landing was dim, only a dusty light fixture overhead providing a weak glow.The pull-down hatch looked unremarkable except for a faint scuff, as though it’d been used recently.Finn gently pulled on the cord.It creaked open, dust raining down in a soft cloud.
“Ely?”he called upward, shining his flashlight into the darkness.“We’re coming up.Don’t panic.”
He climbed first, the ladder shaky but holding his weight.At the top, he aimed the beam around the low-ceilinged attic.Boxes lay scattered, cobwebs draped across beams.He noticed a faint movement in the far corner.The shape jerked at the light’s touch.
Eleanor popped her head through the hatch behind him.“Ely?”
A muffled gasp.Then, from behind an old chest of drawers, a slim figure emerged—Ely Abrams.He looked disheveled: rumpled shirt, hair matted with sweat, eyes wild with panic.Clutched in one hand was a small flashlight, its beam flickering.The other hand trembled as if he expected an attack.
“Stay back!”Ely rasped.His voice cracked.“Who are you?”
Finn raised both hands, the flashlight angled away from Ely's face."Finn Wright—consultant detective.This is Dr.Eleanor Matthews.We're part of the team working on the Victoria Palmer case.We're here about the forged paintings.We're not arresting you, okay?We just need your help."
Ely’s shoulders slumped, relief battling with terror.“H-How did you find me?”
Eleanor stepped carefully off the ladder and onto the attic floor.“You’re the only person who can verify the entire set of forgeries that ended up at the Blackthorn Gallery.I guess you're hiding, given the recent murders?”
Ely swallowed hard, nodding.“It’s not safe,” he whispered.“Harrison… he threatened me.”He wiped a shaky hand over his face.“I… I had no choice.”
"Threatened you how?"Finn asked gently, stepping closer."We know about the fakes.We suspect the murders are connected to them, and the killer knows about the forgeries.People who discovered the forgeries ended up dead.You might be in danger, too, having lied about the paintings being legit."
Ely closed his eyes, voice trembling.“I signed off on those paintings under duress.Harrison Blackthorn told me if I didn’t authenticate them as genuine, he’d ruin me.Or worse.He claims he has powerful connections that would rough me up.”A bitter laugh slipped out.“I believed him.”
Eleanor inhaled slowly.“So that’s howThe Cornfield,The Blue Boy, andThe Medusawere passed off as real.You used your professional reputation to rubber-stamp them?”
Ely nodded, shame twisting his features.“Yes.Every time an expensive piece of art is to be displayed in an exhibition, it must be verified as the real deal.I’m not proud that I lied.Once I realized the extent of the operation, I tried to back out.But then people started turning up dead.I panicked.I… I’ve been hiding here for days.”His eyes darted around the attic, as though expecting an intruder.“But it’s no use.He’ll find me eventually.”
“How many more forgeries are there?”Eleanor asked.
“I don’t know… Many…”
“This is art fraud on an unprecedented level,” Eleanor said in a low voice.
Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor.This was bigger and more dangerous than they’d feared.“Ely, we can protect you,” Finn said quietly.“If you’ll give us a statement about Harrison’s threats and the details of what he forced you to do, we can help.We think the murderer might be close to him.We need any information you have.”
