If this was a trap, I would be arrested for trespassing.
I swiped the blank card.
The light on the reader flipped from red to green, and the heavy door clicked open.
I slipped inside into a dimly lit concrete corridor.
David was waiting in the shadows near a stack of wooden shipping crates.
He had taken off his uniform tie, and he looked exhausted.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually show up,” he said quietly, gesturing for me to follow him down a narrow service hallway.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked, keeping my voice low as we navigated past a row of silent utility carts.
“In 2008, I wasn’t a security guard,” David said, his eyes scanning the ceiling for cameras. “I was a patrol cop for the CPD. I was the first one to respond to the fire at your husband’s shop on 43rd Street.”
I stopped walking. The damp air in the corridor suddenly felt suffocating.
“You were there?”
David nodded, rubbing his thumb absently over the thick burn scar on his wrist.
“I helped pull him out. But before the fire trucks arrived, I saw a black town car speeding out of the alley behind the shop. I got the plate number. It belonged to Marcus Vance. Julianne’s father.”
My stomach churned. Marcus Vance had been Arthur’s original business partner.
They had a bitter falling out a year before the fire when Arthur discovered Marcus had been skimming money from their clients.
“I tried to report it,” David continued, his jaw tightening. “But Marcus Vance had half the precinct in his pocket. My captain told me to drop it. When I refused, they transferred me, harassed me, and eventually forced me to resign. I took this job at Vanguard three years ago just waiting for Marcus or his daughter to slip up. Today, when they brought the Falcon up from the deep vault for the auction, I knew this was my only chance to find the proof.”
He led me to a heavy, reinforced steel door marked Private Archives - Authorized Personnel Only.
He swiped his badge, and we hurried into a massive, climate-controlled room filled with endless rows of metal filing cabinets and locked evidence boxes.
“The provenance files for tomorrow’s high-value lots were moved in here this afternoon,” David whispered, pulling a small flashlight from his belt.
We moved down the aisles, scanning the labels until we found a metal drawer marked Lot 42 - The Starlight Falcon.
David pulled the drawer open. Inside sat an old, faded velvet box and a thick manila folder.
I carefully opened the folder. My hands were trembling so badly the papers rustled in the quiet room.
I expected to find a forged insurance claim or a fake appraisal.
Instead, the very first document was a standard Vanguard Bill of Sale.
I shined the flashlight on the bottom of the page.
There, written in blue ink, was Arthur’s distinct, looping signature.
The document stated that Arthur Porter willingly sold the Starlight Falcon to Marcus Vance for fifty thousand dollars.
A profound, sickening cold spread through my chest.
I stared at the signature. It was real. I knew his handwriting better than my own.
Did Arthur sell it?
We were drowning in debt that year.
Did he give up his masterpiece to Marcus behind my back just to save us, and then lie to me about finishing it?
Tears of betrayal and utter confusion welled in my eyes. The entire foundation of my grief felt like a lie.
“He sold it,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “He actually sold it to them.”
David leaned in, his brow furrowing as he looked at the document.
“Are you sure?”
Before I could answer, the harsh, fluorescent overhead lights snapped on with a loud, mechanical clatter, blinding us instantly.