Us.
It’s easy to feel like he swept me off my feet, but even though St. Clair offered me the chance of a lifetime, I was the one who decided to take it. And every new day has taken me further from that nervous, timid girl back in San Francisco, toward…what? I’ve changed, I can feel it, I’m more confident now; braver. Happier. I like to think if my mom was here, she’d be proud of me for growing. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that I can no longer wait for fate to give me what I want.
I look at the sky, at the cotton ball clouds, and wonder for the millionth time since my mom died if she can see me, really see me. Would she approve of this plan, of what I’m doing in the name of justice, and love? Would she understand?
She would if she could see my heart, and that’s one part of me I know she always understood. She used to tell me, “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” except she really meant it. She did everything she could to make me smile.
“I’m happy, Mom,” I whisper to the heavens. “I hope you are, too.”
I arrive at the station right on schedule, and make sure to carry the tube obviously as I drag my case out and hail another cab. I give the driver an address in the countryside. As we head away from the crowd at the train station, adrenaline starts coursing through me. This is it. The last step.
Don’t blow it now.
About twenty minutes outside of town, the cab turns off the main road down a winding country lane. The trees turn manicured, spaced evenly to create a grand driveway. As we crest a hill, a sprawling estate comes into view. A stone mansion sits behind a low brick wall and at least three other stone buildings and a wooden barn are scattered behind on acres and acres of green hillside dotted with trees.
“Wow,” I breathe. It’s elegant, tasteful – and considering the owner, I’m surprised.
The tires crunch on the gravel in the driveway. The cab deposits me outside the grand front door, and then drives away. I wipe my palms on my skirt and silently count to three.
Breathe, Grace.
A few steps to the door and I ring the bell.
“Yes?” A barking voice calls. “I told you, I’m not interested in your local bloody milk—”
The door swings open, and I come face to face with the owner of the estate.
Spencer Crawford.
He looks surprised to see me. “I know you,” he sneers. “You’re St. Clair’s latest bit of alright. Weren’t you arrested?”
I clear my throat. “Grace Bennett. And they let me go.”
“So? What’s all this about?” Crawford looks around. “Is St. Clair here?”
“No. But may I have a moment of your time? This won’t take long,” I add.
Crawford pauses, then shrugs. “Make it quick. I have some friends due tonight. And they like to party, if you know what I mean.”
I try not to shudder as I step toward the door – holding the painting tube outstretched. But before I can set foot inside, the shriek of sirens comes screaming up the drive. A fleet of police cars careen toward us, lights flashing and horns blaring.
Right on cue.
“What the hell…” Crawford swears and steps outside, covering his ears.
More sirens approach, their alarms making the air vibrate with screeching, and above us, a helicopter circles the estate.
Whoa, a helicopter?
“Don’t move!” a voice yells through a megaphone. “You are surrounded. Put your hands above your head and remain where you are.”
We both raise our hands to the sky, wide-eyed. I don’t have to fake my fear or shock here—this is quite a turn out. It’s crazy: cops everywhere, the noise from the chopper, and even the sound of barking as a group of police search dogs are let out of the back of a van. At last, the chaos seems to calm, and a familiar voice comes striding out of the crowd.
Lennox.
Crawford sees him, too. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” he bellows. “This is private property!”
“And I have a badge and probable cause,” Lennox says, flashing his Interpol ID. “Now where is St. Clair?”
Crawford stutters. “St. Clair? I don’t understand.”
“He’s not here,” I say, innocently. “Is there something you’re looking for?”
Lennox glares at me. “Grace, I’m done playing games with you. If St. Clair isn’t here, you’ll go to jail yourself.”
He snatches the painting tube out from under my arm faster than I can react. “All I need is this evidence,” he says, opening the tube. He pulls out the canvas and unrolls it. Then his face changes.
“What is this?” he demands.
“Not what you were expecting, detective?” I smile sweetly.
“Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Crawford butts in.
“This isn’t the Armande.” Lennox scowls. He turns to yell at his team. “Search the house!”
Men push past us, heading inside with the police dogs. Lennox turns back to me. “Where’s the painting you stole?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That painting—an O’Brien from St. Clair’s own private collection, by the way—is supposed to be a gift for Mr. Crawford.” I turn to the man I loathe and smile. “Mr. St. Clair sympathized with your loss, having just lost one of his own paintings to a heist as well, and wanted to offer you a little consolation. St. Clair isn’t the monster you think he is,” I tell Lennox pointedly. “Maybe you can see now that you misjudged him.”
Dogs start barking from inside. Lennox snaps his head around, and charges into the house.
I follow, with Crawford hot on my heels. “What the hell?” Crawford is still complaining angrily. “Be careful! Those are antiques!”
The dogs cluster around a door, barking wildly.
“What’s behind there?” Lennox demands.
“That’s the wine cellar,” Crawford blusters. “I keep a priceless collection, you mustn’t disturb the bottles—”
Lennox kicks open the door.
Crawford is livid, his face red. “Expect a lawsuit tomorrow! You, this whole department!” He gestures wildly and shouts at Lennox’s back. “Dumb dogs!” He moves to kick the still barking dogs but one of the husky German Shepherds lunges at him, snapping his teeth.
“Owww!”
Crawford reels back, scurrying outside. “Where is my assistant? Natalie? Natalie!” he bellows.
She comes around the corner from one of the guest cottages. “You yelled?” she asks.
“Who are these people?” he demands. “Get me my lawyers, right now!”
“Good idea,” Lennox’s voice comes. He steps out of the house – holding the Armande painting. “You’re going to need them.”
Crawford looks confused. “Where did that come from? I thought you said it had been stolen.”
“That’s what we thought.” Lennox fixes him with a suspicious glare. “Trying to run an insurance scam, Mr. Crawford?”
Lennox calls to the other officers, “I want an evidence team in that cellar. I spotted at least half a dozen stolen paintings down there. And search the rest of the house. I believe we’ve found our thief.”
“This is ridiculous!” Crawford explodes. “I’ll have your badge for this! Natalie!”
She stands there calmly. “I had no idea,” she says. “Agent Lennox, should I get the keys to the rest of the property? There are some outbuildings and garages. I can show your men the way.”
“Thank you, that would be very helpful.”
Natalie catches my eye for a moment, and we share a secret grin. It wasn’t hard to recruit her to our cause: she’s seen first-hand the damage Crawford has done. She was more than willing to give us access to the estate, so St. Clair could sneak in and plant the incriminating stolen art early this morning.