“I’m not an employee.”
“No. You’re worse, Professor Knox. You’re a leech, and you’ve outstayed your welcome.”
I’d taken the money.
Of course, I had. Not because I needed it, but because it was a reminder that I stayed too long pretending to be Knox, and I could only hurt Ezra in the end.
And he was young. Younger than I thought when I first approached him. The silver in his hair and his reputation in the art curation field had made me think he was older. He was only ever supposed to be a way into Rockford Manor. But I had gotten distracted, let myself pretend that what we were doing could last, when all he knew was the lie I presented.
It was better for everyone that I go, before things got messy.
Did Ezra know I was paid to leave? Did he agree to it? Or did he search for me after I vanished? These questions circle like vultures, useless and destructive.
I give my head a shake and readjust my glasses. I need to focus, or I’ll be caught the same way my grandfather was.
He spent the end of his life in prison for art forgery. Not for the quality of his work, which was exceptional, but because he trusted the wrong person. HisAnatomy of a Ghostwas his masterpiece, completed before his arrest. The original vanished into a private collection, and his perfect copy disappeared with it.
Both were presumed destroyed until three weeks ago, when a confidential auction listing mentioned a Valenne being sold at Halcyon. My sources confirmed it’s the original. And after tonight, it will still appear to be the original, while the real painting leaves with me.
It holds a symmetry that would bring a smile to my grandfather’s worn face from whatever afterlife holds forgers and thieves.
Ezra and the Rockfords belong to the past. The hunt, the artistry…Thisis my present.
I drift to the next table, moving closer to the staircase. The security guard has changed positions, moving to follow some commotion near the main entrance, opening a window of opportunity.
The memories recede, not gone but contained, like paint sealed beneath varnish. Tonight isn’t about Ezra Rockford. It can’t be. Not when I’m so close to finishing what my grandfather started.
The shattering of crystal breaks the air, and everyone turns to the Omega from earlier, who stands next to the champagne tower, trembling in horror at the broken flute now on the floor.
I become invisible in the collective distraction, and my movements are unhurried as I slip through the service door near the eastern corridor. No rushing. Rushing draws attention. Instead, I move with the purpose of someone who has permission to be where they shouldn’t be.
The staff pass card I duplicated earlier slides through the reader with a soft beep, granting me access to the private wing where my grandfather’s ghost awaits.
The upper floor holds a different air than the bustling chaos of the rooms below. The air is still, temperature-controlled to preserve what hangs on these walls.
My shoes fall soundlessly on the thick carpet as I count my steps, checking off the turns from the floor plan I memorized. Left at the second archway past the small bronze sculpture of a dancer. Right at the portrait of a stern-faced man whose fixed gaze watches my every move.
I pause at each corner, listening for footsteps, the crackle of security radios, any sign I’m not alone. Nothing but the distant murmur of the staff below, muffled by distance.
My heart holds a steady rhythm. This isn’t my first heist, and I won’t fall prey to the adrenaline high of an amateur. I’m a professional who will save that for after the job is done.
The private salon appears the same as my source described, intimate in scale with cream-colored walls and deep mahogany accents. Far different from the grand rooms I’ve spent all day setting up for the party. Three paintings hang on the far wall, each illuminated by its own discrete lighting. But I have eyes only for one.
Anatomy of a Ghost.
Two feet by four of Valenne’s tormented genius. From across the room, the painting appears to shift and breathe, the central figure both present and dissolving.
The longer I stare, the more I see, anatomical details hidden in shadow, expressions that change with each angle of light. It’s magnificent. It’s exactly as my grandfather depicted it, down to the faint aurora bleeding across the upper right corner of the thundercloud sky.
For a moment, I’m eight years old again, sitting on his lap as he describes the painting from memory, his hands moving through the air to trace invisible brushstrokes.“The secret is in how the figure both exists and doesn’t exist. That’s why it’s impossible to copy.”
Impossible for anyone but him. And now, me.
I cross the room, reaching to free the tube strapped to my back with a practiced motion, and set it at the base of the wall. Then I turn to the painting, studying the frame, the hanging mechanism, checking for alarm triggers or pressure sensors.
Nothing obvious. Either they’re very good or very confident.
When I lift the painting from the wall, its weight is lighter than I expected. The frame isn’t original, which works in my favor.
