Chapter 3
The man arrived twelve minutes later and told us not to touch the painting.
He introduced himself as Noah Bennett, an art specialist from a nearby auction house. Then he bent over the exhibition label without removing his coat.
“Was Elise Laurent French?”
“My grandmother was born in Lyon.”
“Did she live in Paris around 1929?”
“I don’t know.”
Noah looked from the faded name to the woman in blue.
“Have you ever heard of Celeste Moreau?”
I shook my head.
“She was one of the most important painters of her generation,” he said. “And one of her earliest portraits disappeared almost a century ago.”
The frame shop suddenly felt too quiet.
Noah put on gloves and examined the yellowed label beneath a magnifying lens. He checked the hand-cut nails, then ran a light along the edge of the canvas.
“This label is consistent with the period,” he said. “So is the frame.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I haven’t found a reason to dismiss it yet.”
He carefully loosened one side of the frame.
A narrow strip of canvas appeared beneath the wood. Near the bottom corner, almost hidden under the deep blue paint, were several dark letters.
C. Mor—
Noah stopped breathing for a second.
My mother’s portrait had spent the night beside a dumpster.
Madison had called it ugly.
Now an auction-house expert seemed afraid to touch it.
“Is that her signature?” Sophie asked.
“It could be.”
“Could be?”
“Signatures can be forged.”
Noah straightened, but his eyes remained fixed on the letters. He explained that the pigments would need testing and the ownership history had to be reconstructed. A committee of experts might also need to examine it.
The process could take weeks.
I had six days left on Sophie’s sofa.
“If it’s real,” I asked, “what is it worth?”
“I don’t want to give you a number based on a fifteen-minute inspection.”
“I’m not asking for a promise.”
My voice sounded calmer than I felt.
“I just need to know whether I’m carrying an old family painting or something I should be afraid to leave unattended.”
Noah studied me, then took out his phone.
He showed me an auction result for another Celeste Moreau portrait.
Sold: $4,760,000.
The number blurred.
“That was a later work with excellent provenance,” he said. “Yours hasn’t been authenticated.”
“But if it is the missing portrait?”
He looked at the woman in blue again.
“Three to five million dollars. Possibly more.”
Five million dollars.
That morning, I had checked whether $684 could last until Ethan paid me.
Now the painting he had thrown into the alley might be worth more than LAST LIGHT.
More than the apartment above it.
More than everything he had stolen from me.
For the first time since I saw Madison sitting on my desk, I could breathe without feeling his hands around my life.
Noah covered the painting with protective paper.
“It stays sealed until testing. No cleaning, no public photographs, and no one handles it without me present.”
I opened the agreement Rachel had emailed me.
The sentence was still there.
Old portrait belonging solely to Claire Morgan. No company claim.
Ethan had been so eager to get rid of me that he had signed away the only thing in the building that might be worth millions.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Madison appeared.
Ethan wants to know why an auction-house expert is examining our painting.
Our painting.
Before I could answer, Ethan called.
I declined it.
A photograph arrived seconds later—the final page of our agreement. The line giving me the portrait had been circled in red.
Then another message appeared.
Don’t take that painting anywhere. I’m coming to get it.
I looked through the shop window.
Ethan’s car had just pulled up outside.
Noah followed my gaze.
“Who else knows what you have?”
The driver’s door opened.
“My husband,” I said. “The man who called it worthless until someone told him it might be worth millions.”