“Arthur was trapped in the fire on October 12th,” I interrupted, stepping toward her, the anger finally burning through my fear.
“He suffered third-degree burns and severe smoke inhalation. He was placed on a ventilator in a medically induced coma at Chicago General Hospital on the morning of the 13th. He died on the 15th.”
I pointed a shaking finger at the document.
“He was unconscious and dying in a hospital bed on October 14th. He didn't sign this. Your father stole it the night of the fire, realized he couldn't sell a stolen masterpiece without a paper trail, and forged this document two days later using an old signature from their partnership days.”
Julianne’s face drained of color for a fraction of a second.
She stared at the date, realizing her father’s sloppy, arrogant mistake.
But instead of panicking, her expression hardened into something incredibly dangerous.
She lunged forward, grabbing my worn handbag from my shoulder.
I tried to pull it back, but one of the massive guards stepped in, grabbing my arm and holding me in place.
David yelled and lunged at the guard, but the second man tackled David hard into the metal shelves, pinning him against the steel with an arm across his throat.
Julianne dumped the contents of my purse onto the metal table.
My keys, my wallet, the bank foreclosure notices, and Arthur's folded death certificate spilled out.
She ignored the papers and sifted through the items until she saw a small, heavy object roll out of my change purse.
It was the raw sapphire.
Julianne’s eyes lit up with predatory triumph.
“I knew you had it,” she breathed, picking up the blue stone. “The catalog appraisers said the piece was incomplete. This is the center mechanism. With this, the valuation doubles.”
“You have no right to that,” I choked out, struggling against the guard’s grip.
Julianne ignored me. She pulled a clean microfiber cloth from her jacket pocket.
From her other pocket, she produced the Starlight Falcon itself, the diamonds catching the harsh fluorescent light.
She carefully wiped down the metal of the brooch, erasing any of her own fingerprints.
Then, she walked right up to me.
Before I could process what she was doing, she shoved the heavy platinum bird deep into the front pocket of my wool coat.
She stepped back rapidly, leaving the raw sapphire on the table, and pulled a cell phone from her jacket.
“Let’s see who the police believe,” Julianne said, dialing 911.
“A destitute, grieving widow who broke into a secure vault to steal a two-million-dollar artifact, or the Director of Vanguard.”
She hit the call button and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Yes, police? I need immediate assistance at the Vanguard Auction House loading dock. A woman just broke into our archives and assaulted my security team. She has a priceless artifact in her pocket.”
David groaned against the shelving, completely restrained.
I felt the heavy, cold weight of my husband's legacy sitting in my pocket, transformed into a weapon to destroy me.
Outside, the faint wail of police sirens began to rise over the sound of the freezing rain.
Julianne ended the call and smiled at me.
“You should have stayed in your little bookstore, Evelyn.”
The heavy metal doors of the loading dock suddenly rattled violently, and a voice over a bullhorn commanded everyone to freeze.
The archive room door was thrown open with tremendous force.
Four Chicago police officers flooded into the room, flashlights sweeping over the metal shelves, their hands resting cautiously on their duty belts.
Behind them, stepping carefully to avoid the wet floor, was an older man in a tailored navy trench coat.