Page 71 of Devious Gambit

“I think you’re perfect too.”

“Yeah, I’m not,” shrugging my comment off. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “I’m a fucking horrible person,” but I might be wrong.

Since Mr. Ed thawed out, he decided to make the rest of the journey fun by stopping off at certain landmarks and taking a pic of me at each point. I stood in front of a waterfall at Crystal Falls, breathing in the cool, fresh air as the sound of the gushing water calmed my soul. I stood in front of the Vietnam War memorial at Granites Heights made from Wisconsin granite, the Custom Meats sign in Marathon City, the big ice cream cone in Abbortsford outside the Hawkeye Dairy Store, and The Dells Mill in Augusta, shot taken from the bridge with me to the side of the frame.

Stillwater, Minnesota is a picturesque little town on the west bank of the St. Croix River, not that I was enjoying the view. I was so nervous about meeting my father the next morning that everything faded into black and white. We passed by the prison on the way to our accommodation, a historical hotel, and I thought I was going to vomit.

I loved his choice of accommodation and he beamed in pride when I said it aloud. Although the Luxon smile was wide on his dial, he still wouldn’t or couldn’t look me in the eye and that left me cold.

The effort he went to made me feel like a princess. I felt loved and desired, two phenomenons I wasn’t used to. We stood in front of the hotel and he took a selfie of the both of us together, the first and only selfie he’d ever taken of us. I waited to see if he was going to post it on social media, but he didn’t seem to. I briefly scanned his social media accounts a week earlier, feeling like a stalker, doing something I shouldn’t. I found absolutely no mention of me, which didn’t surprise me, but it still hurt nonetheless. It felt as if he wanted to have fun with me, without anyone knowing.

Standing in front of the historical hotel in Stillwater, I felt utterly confused. I didn’t know whether I should scratch my watch or wind my butt. His actions and efforts told me he liked me, but his lack of eye contact told me something else.

We had a romantic dinner in the hotel dining room, but I was too nervous to eat much, then we watched TV, until he lured me to bed. The sex was different from what I’d experienced previously. There was no mention of the word ‘lesson’ and he was tender and loving and make sure I came.

I failed to sleep that night as thoughts of my father’s crime haunted my mind. Like father, like daughter. I took after my mother in many ways, the love of literature, and the shyness and the fact I lived most of my life in a dreamy space inside my imagination. My mother said she was like me when she was younger, when she’d gaze upon the world under a guise of romance. But my eyes were different to anyone else in our family and my hair was darker, my face long, whereas the Gallaghers had a tendency for golden or dark blond hair and heart-shaped faces. I also had a dry sense of humor and pale skin, freckles on my shoulders and cheeks, it was a mystery to me where those traits came from. I guess, I was going to find out soon enough.

I woke early and went for a walk to clear my head. When I returned, Mr. Ed had made a pot of coffee and asked if I felt like breakfast.

“I think I would vomit it up,” I told him, rubbing my stomach.

“I figured that,” he answered, signaling for me sit on the chair at the table. “We need to talk.” His eyes were low and he folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands in his armpits, as if they were cold.

An acidy brick landed in my stomach. This was what I was waiting for. Dogfight. I’d prepared myself for this very moment. “What about?”

“You seeing your father.”

“Okay.”

He stood before me and gazed out the window as he spoke.“Did you read about what your father and the Lander’s boys took from the house after they killed them?”

“Goods that were already stolen.”

“Okay…so…” he exhaled, relaxing his shoulders. “One of the men who your father killed was a renown art thief who went under several aliases,” he waved his hand, dismissively, “but mostly, he’s known as Leith Heinrich. Anyway, sometime ago he stole an art piece from private collection in Chicago that belongs to the Harringtons and went underground with it.”

“What piece was it?” acting dumb, because I knew where this was going.

“Have you heard of Gustav Klimt?”

“Yes.”

“That makes one of us. I’m not a follower of art, I had to Google him. Anyway, when the three victims had their DNA analyzed, they found a match on the police database, which was the thief Heinrich. This house outside of Detroit was one of his hideouts.”

“Okay. My father stole the painting from the art thief.”

“Yes. And the Harringtons want it back.”

A little light bulb went off in my brain. “Harrington? As in your friend.”

“Yeah, Cody.”

“Oh wow, you know someone who owns a Klimt that’s beyond cool.”

He paused to take a deep breath, running his fingers through his black hair with an anguished expression upon his face. “Like I said, the Harringtons want the Klimt back, they’ve got a buyer for it and…between you and I, need the money to pay off some dirty, mafia debt, but that’s another story. Apparently, it’s valued at over a hundred and fifty million.”

I just about fell off my chair.

“The exchange is to take place on January 25th, so they need it back and examined by an art expert for the authenticity by then.”

---