Page 149 of One Wrong Move

“He stopped by your gallery, again?”

“Yes, to convince me to tell you to buy his painting.”

Nate curses. “He’s persistent.”

“He isn’t interested in me,” I say. “He’s interested in your money.”

“Good. Because that means infinitely less to me.”

I smile into the phone, despite myself. “Just promise me you won’t buy it without me there, without us speaking about it.”

“I’ll wait. I was going to make the call this afternoon, but?—”

“Don’t!” I say. “Wait until I come home. Promise me.”

There’s amusement in his voice now. “I promise.”

“Good. Okay… good.”

“Want me to pick you up from work?”

“Do you have time for that?”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “But I can make it happen.”

I smile at my keyboard and run my thumb along the large Enter key. It’s nice to hear his voice during a normal workday. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. And it’s lovely out. I’ll walk.”

“I’ll meet you at home, then.”

“Sure you don’t need to work late? You mentioned?—”

“I’m sure,” he says.

I think of what Richard mentioned. That since I moved in, Nate is working less. That he’s around the house more. Warmth floods me.

“I’ll see you at home.”

“Can’t wait, baby.”

We hang up, and I stare at the screen, unseeing. Wearing a smile on my face, like an absolute moron. It takes me a few seconds to remember why I came in here and what for. Research. Right.

Later, when I arrive home, it’s with a conviction born out of what I discovered, and the sinking suspicion that it might not matter to Nate. He isn’t doing this because he loves art. He’s doing this because he wants to sign a business deal.

I’m waiting in the backyard—curled up on the bench under the sun, with a large glass of lemonade and a book—when he gets home. Mom had sent over a copy of The Professor by Charlotte Brontë, and I love her thoughtfulness.

Nate doesn’t like what I have to say.

I see it immediately when I say the words, the way his mouth turns into a scowl and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“You’re sure it’s a fake?” he asks.

I give a shrug. “Sure? No, I can’t be sure. But the evidence strongly points in that direction. Another gallery sent one of his paintings to an authentication expert a few months back, and the results came back inconclusive.”

Nate’s eyebrows furrow. “Inconclusive. So?”

“Inconclusive means fake in the art world. But, somehow, he’s kept going, and I… it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s all going to come crashing down sooner or later. The police might already be onto him.”

“What do you think?”

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