Page 30 of Sweet Animosity

Except for the metal door and the stench of bleach, everything looked neat and tidy. There was no hint of the chaos of tipped-over filing cabinets and thrown-about paperwork and files from earlier. My gaze wandered to the far door. On the other side was where the bodies had been.

Even though I knew they probably weren’t there, I was still grateful that what I was looking for was in the outer office. I didn’t think I could bring myself to enter that door, not even for the money I was owed.

And I was owed a lot.

Fifty thousand dollars for five artworks.

And my parents always said an art degree wouldn’t pay the bills.

Ha!

Although the ten grand per piece I received was nothing compared to the millions my work would sell for on the black market.

But that would make me a criminal. A serious multinational on Interpol’s radar criminal at risk of being charged with art fraud, money laundering, wire fraud, and all sorts of scary shit that would land me in a disgusting rat hole French prison for five years.

As it stood right now, I was simply someone who painted masterpiece look-alikes for art enthusiasts.

And I didn’t need to be greedy. Fifty grand bought a lot of fabulous purses and shoes.

Lowering to my knees, I rolled back the carpet in the center of the room. I’d noticed last night that despite the entire office getting tossed, the wool carpet had not been disturbed, which meant they hadn’t found Abakar’s floor vault.

Since he had planned on distributing the paintings in Europe, there was a good chance they were still in there. I hoped so. I’d spent five months on the project. That was a lot of time wasted if I couldn’t recover some of the money.

The metal latch did not have the usual padlock on it. The lock would not be an issue since Abakar had a silly habit of mouthing the numbers whenever he opened it, so I already knew the combination. But it missing was an issue. It meant the vault was probably compromised.

I sent up a silent prayer that the thieves had grabbed the cash and ledgers, but were uncultured louts who left the paintings.

Using both hands, I thrust open the trapdoor.

The vault was empty.

Crap.

So much for my to-do item plan.

My only choice now was to walk away from the whole mess.

After all, it wasn’t like I could stroll into the police station and file a robbery report for my forged paintings. Or report the super shady, now dead dictator for not paying me the under-the-table cash he owed me for them.

I’d lie low for a few weeks, using Varlaam’s cash for expenses… and maybe a little retail therapy… and then I’d go into my bank and claim identity fraud and get them to unfreeze my accounts and issue new credit cards.

Letting the trapdoor fall with a bang, I rose as I dusted my hands off.

Okay, I had a new plan.

I’d chalk all this up to a lesson learned.

From now on, I’d get the money in advance.

I was so occupied with my thoughts and disappointment, I didn’t see the man approach until it was too late.

I turned to run.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, Vivian.”

Startled that he knew my name, I glanced over my shoulder.

The man was standing with his feet wide and arms outstretched.

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