“You thought I was looking at the paintings,” I said. “But I was looking at you.”

The journalist stepped further into the room, her boots clicking on the floorboards.

“Mrs. Hayes,” she said, “can you speak to the involvement of Clara Bennett in the shipping transactions?”

Clara turned on her heel, her silk coat whipping around her ankles.

“This is absurd,” Clara said, her voice sharp. “I am a private citizen.”

“Your name is on the third ledger, Clara,” I said.

She stopped, her back stiffening.

“The ledger you thought was in the vault at the penthouse,” I said.

I pointed to the cardboard box sitting on the lower shelf of my workbench.

It was dusty, the corners worn down by years of storage.

“It’s been here the whole time,” I said.

The security guard beside Clara looked at the box, then at Clara, waiting for an order.

But Clara didn’t speak.

She looked at Daniel, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp panic.

“Daniel,” she whispered. “Tell me she doesn’t have the originals.”

Daniel didn’t answer her.