Page 115 of Fresh Canvas
Sighing, I boxed up the forged painting and stowed it behind a giant crate. All I could hope was that it would stay undiscovered until I knew what to do with it.
I hoped I was covering my bases for the authorities. Obviously, Amantha had found a tangible piece of evidence, but I didn’t know what the evidence was even evidentof.
Moments later, I stepped into my darkened office. The soirée ended hours ago, leaving me with only an eerie silence for company. Logging into the computer, I waited for the software to boot up while I scrolled through the photos of evidence I had taken. The dusty shelf. The forged painting. The record my authentication colleague had written.
After typing into the search bar, I squinted as a scanned condition report on the Cormac Padraig loaded. The printed date on the document was a few years back.
That would check out, based on the amount of dust on that shelf.
How had no one found it in all this time? Had anyone even been looking? Then again, Rick’s closet was home to many obscure things lost over time. But what kind of botched robbery ended up leaving forged artwork in a dank closet?
I zoomed in on the signature at the bottom of the condition report.
KendraSteele.
My eyes grew wide. Had Amantha been right all along? Ienlarged the signature even further before snapping a photo. I loaded a second condition report on the same painting, though dated further back, zooming in again on the signature.
Kendra Steele.
My stomach turned over like a sand timer, each grain spurring a sense of urgency. The names were identical, though the signatures werenot. I quickly gathered more samples of the museum director’s signature as my heartbeat sped. While none were exact in precision to the others, they were at least consistent.
All but one.
Someonehad signed off on the recent condition report, but it most definitely hadn’t been Kendra. My fingers flew as they typed the name of the Cormac Padraig into the storage logging system. It was a hail mary pass, but if the forgery was currently covered in dust, where was the real one? My jaw dropped.
“It’sstillhere?”
Had it never been stolen in the first place? Or was this an error? I couldn’t be sure until I saw it myself. I jotted down the archive room number and shelf location, took another picture, and locked up my office.
The blue keypad beeped for the third time as I reentered the first storage room. In a matter of seconds, I slid a crate from a low wire shelf and read the label.A Lonesome Sight. Cormac Padraig. Charcoal and oil on canvas. Archive #1, slot 28.
I clicked the silver latch open. Peeking beneath the lid, I froze. Theauthenticwaves tumbled against the Irish cliffs of Moher, ignoring my gaping mouth. It hadn’t been stolen after all.
Adrenaline pounded through my veins.
Amantha.
I cursed the time on my wrist.2:03 AM.
This couldn’t wait. I couldn’t spend another second with her thinking I’d stolen the painting that was literally in front of me.
So, I selected all the photos of evidence I’d taken and textedthem to her. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I dialed her number.
Voicemail.
Couldn’t blame her. It was really late—this call even more proof of me being a selfish jerk. The recording beep sounded too quickly.
Not knowing what to say, my words tumbled out of their own accord.
“Amantha. Um, hi. I tried to call… Well, obviously.” I grimaced. “I guess if this is the only way I can reach you, I apologize in advance for all the voicemails I’ll be leaving tonight. First off, I need you to know that I have in no way been involved in all this. To be honest, I’ve been racking my brain trying to see your perspective. To be fair, I know we’ve not been, um, talking. But, still. I’m no criminal?—”
Beep.The recording timed out, so I cursed and dialed again.
Voicemail.
“Sorry, got cut off. Well, I found the Cormac Padraig behind the toilet paper box like you said and called my authentication friend to assess the damage. Amantha, the painting in the closet is fake. The real Cormac Padraig is still here in the archives. I’m looking at it right now. Granted, if you still think I’m a thief, you probably don’t believe me.”
I let out an exhausted chuckle, the late hour suddenly taking a humorous turn. “All I’m asking is to give a guy a break. I’ve been at the museum all night trying to clear my name here. And get this—I looked up the last condition report for the Padraig, and itlookslike Kendra signed off on it, but her signature was forged?—”
