Page 157 of Under the Lies

That particular painting was called The Girl Lost in the Sunflowers.

“It’s yours,” Noah tells me.

I barely hear him. “What?”

“This painting” —he points above his head— “is one you painted.”

“What happened to the original?” I focus on that. If I focus on the fact that I basically did a forgery I’m afraid I’ll go into cardiac arrest.

“He fenced it.”

Fenced. So technical. I’ve heard it before on crime shows and movies. Basically, it means, my granddad got rid of it. Sold it on some kind of illegal market.

I suck in a breath. It’s shaky. Like my hands as I rub my face.

“How are you doing?”

Such a simple question for such a loaded answer.

“Well. Let’s see.” I scoot out from the alcove, closer to him. “I just found out my granddad is a thief and was a crime lord—”

“He wasn’t a crime lord.”

I spike a brow. “Oh, I’m sorry. What would you call it then?” I lean over, squinting my eyes. “What is your role here? You said he left you this. What are you?”

“The mastermind.”

Despite everything, I snort. He’s so serious. “That doesn’t sound cheesy at all.”

He doesn’t react. “We all have roles here, Sayer. That one happens to be mine.”

Mastermind, I muse over. It’s fitting. The ruthless and cunning businessman is in charge of all this. He’s the one that gets shit done. And has the money and resources to keep it hidden.

Connections stuffed in his back pocket.

And isn’t that how I always thought of him on the chessboard? The king. The mastermind.

“What about the others?”

“Thea’s a hacker. The tech wiz.” She told me she did IT work…

He pushes off the wall, scooting closer to me. “Reeve is the forger.” Right, he did mention that some of the paintings at the art gallery were done by him. “And Gabe’s our hitman.”

I choke. “Excuse me? Hitman? Like he kills people for money?”

“He does it for The Underground,” Noah states as if it is no big deal. “When we need him too, which isn’t too often. Mostly he’s the brute muscle.”

Gabe. Out of everything that’s been dropped on me today, learning Gabe is basically an assassin is up there with my granddad being a thief.

Gabe, who wrote poetry in the margins of his notebook in that class we shared back in prep school. Gabe, who reads leather bound books at parties.

The quietest ones are the most dangerous, I remind myself.

“What about my sister? What did she do?”

“She was the thief on jobs.”

Now I’m confused. “Aren’t you all thieves?”

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