The screen showed a photo of an empty wall where our most valuable painting used to hang.

I slid the phone across the polished mahogany table to Julian.

The screen showed the bare plaster wall of the dining room where our 1917 Modigliani portrait had hung for six years.

Julian took the device, his face hardening as he zoomed in on the empty hook.

“That was your mother’s favorite piece,” he said softly.

“He sold it,” I said, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet library.

Julian turned back to the Delaware trust document, his penlight tracing the fine print on the liquidation schedule.

“The transaction cleared four days before she passed in Boston,” he said.

He flipped to the signature page and held the penlight close to my supposed signature.

“It was a private sale to an offshore buyer in Geneva,” Julian said. “Eight point seven million dollars.”

I leaned forward, looking at the elegant curves of my own name written in dark blue ink.

“I was in the hospice room that entire week,” I said. “I didn’t sign anything, Julian.”