I flinched, dropping the folder onto the metal table.
Footsteps echoed from the entrance.
Julianne Vance stepped into the archive room, flanked by two massive men in tactical security gear.
She was still wearing her slate-gray suit, though she had added a luxurious cashmere scarf around her neck.
She looked at us with a cold, triumphant smirk.
“I was wondering when you’d try to break in, Evelyn,” Julianne said, her voice dripping with venom. “You poor, desperate woman. Always grasping at things that don't belong to you.”
The two tactical guards moved quickly, securing the heavy door behind Julianne and stepping toward us.
David instinctively stepped in front of me, raising his hands.
“Take it easy,” David said, his voice dropping into the authoritative tone of a former cop. “We’re just looking at company records.”
“You are trespassing in a secure vault after hours,” Julianne corrected smoothly.
She walked over to the metal table, barely glancing at the folder I had dropped.
“My father warned me about you, Evelyn. He told me that Arthur was a brilliant mechanic, but a weak man. He knew the moment Arthur realized he was bankrupt, he would come crawling to my father to sell his only decent creation.”
I stared at the signature on the paper.
The emotional pain of thinking Arthur had surrendered to his worst enemy was far worse than the fear of being caught in this room.
“If he sold it legally,” I forced myself to say, my voice trembling, “why did your father burn his shop down?”
Julianne laughed, a sharp, brittle sound that echoed off the metal cabinets.
“My father didn't burn anything down. Your husband was a careless, exhausted fool who probably knocked over a soldering torch. My father bought the piece, and it belongs to Vanguard. It is going to save this gallery.”
I frowned, pushing past my own despair.
I looked at Julianne’s immaculate clothes, the excessive security, the sheer desperation in her eyes when she looked at the piece of paper.
Vanguard was one of the wealthiest auction houses in the country. Why would one brooch save them?
Unless they weren't wealthy anymore.
“You’re broke, aren't you?” I realized aloud.
Julianne’s jaw tightened violently.
“The art market fluctuates,” she snapped, stepping closer. “My father made some poor investments before he died. Vanguard needs a high-profile, multi-million dollar sale tomorrow night to appease the board of directors. The Falcon is my property, and it will go to the highest bidder.”
I looked down at the velvet box sitting in the metal drawer.
It was the original box Arthur kept on his workbench.
I reached out and picked it up. As I brought it closer, a faint, lingering scent hit my nose.
It was incredibly subtle, masked by years of cedar storage, but unmistakable to anyone who had spent hours going through the charred remains of a ruined life.
It smelled like kerosene.
Arthur never used kerosene in his shop. He used butane torches.
The doubt that had crushed me just moments ago completely evaporated, replaced by a surge of clarity.
I quickly looked down at the Bill of Sale on the table, forcing my eyes past Arthur's signature to the top right corner.
There, stamped in bold black ink, was the date of the transaction.
October 14, 2008.
My lungs seized.
“You forged this,” I said, my voice dropping to an absolute whisper.
Julianne rolled her eyes. “I assure you, a handwriting expert verified—”