“His developments are failing, and the art smuggling was his only way out.”

“But how did he find out about the journals?” Adrian asked, turning back to me.

“He knows how I work,” I said.

“He knows I never destroy my restoration logs.”

The logs contained every detail of the stolen paintings Grant had forced me to clean and alter.

They were my only proof that I was an unwilling participant, framed by my own husband.

The car turned sharply onto Broadway, the tires humming against the wet asphalt.

Water droplets streaked across the tinted glass.

“If we give him the journals, we lose our leverage,” Adrian said quietly.

“But if we don’t, he will hurt my sister.”

“We find the journals first,” I said.

“Then we decide.”

Adrian nodded, though his expression remained grim.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver pocket knife, turning it over in his hand.

It was a nervous habit I had noticed before.

“The Vale collection was supposed to be secure,” Adrian said, his voice dropping.

“My father trusted the security systems, the cataloging, everything.”