It was the precise, elegant cursive of Jonathan’s personal assistant.

An hour later, the buzzer to the street entrance rang twice.

I walked to the intercom, my fingers hovering over the talk button.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Jonathan,” his voice came through the static, quiet and clear. “I brought the solvent shipment you ordered.”

I hesitated, then pressed the release button.

I heard his footsteps on the wooden stairs, slow and unhurried.

When he reached the landing, he did not try to open the door; he waited for me to turn the lock.

I opened it a few inches.

He was holding a heavy cardboard crate filled with professional-grade turpentine and restoration spirits.

He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes matching my own.

“You shouldn’t have bought the painting, Jonathan,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

He didn’t try to step inside.

“The estate needed the work done,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It is a legitimate piece.”

“It is charity,” I said.

“It is an investment in your talent,” he corrected gently. “I knew you wouldn’t accept a check from me.”