Page 58 of The Artist and the Muse

One of them opened the door with a key from the keyring at their belt. “Here you are. Agent Lucas Black is waiting for you.”

The name nagged at my memory, prying out a brick from the wall I’d built to block out the past.

As I took my bags with me, about to walk through the door, Officer Patchy Moustache held out a hand to stop me. “Phone, please.”

“You’re taking my cell phone from me? I’m pretty sure at least two parts of this whole situation have violated the Charter. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

None of them seemed impressed or even the least bit threatened by my words.

“Phone,” Officer Patchy Moustache repeated.

I fished it out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Will I get this back?”

“Of course. When your interview is completed. We also need to check you for any dangerous items.”

I wanted to retort that I had just gotten off a plane, so security already would have taken care of that. Instead, I just let them pat down my arms and legs, and empty my pockets. When the officers seemed satisfied with their discoveries—a euro and a museum ticket stub—they let me into the room.

I walkedthrough the unmarked door with my luggage. Plunking down on the metal folding chair—could this room be any more of a cliché?—I faced my interrogator. Only to find I was facing an empty seat. I wished I hadn’t so easily surrendered my phone.

Half an hour later, the FBI agent finally came in.

“George Devereaux,” Lucas Black said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I wish I could say the same.” I surveyed Lucas; he was a relatively unimpressive man of average stature, with brown eyes and straight black hair. He didn’t look like the intimidating cop I’d expected to find here, but I didn’t say that out loud.

“Let’s get down to business. What were you doing in Italy?”

“I was taking some students on an art tour—”

“No, I know what you were doing in Italy for the past week. I’m referring to your time in Italy two years ago. When you were working with a suspect known to the FBI, Sebastian Cavalli.” Lucas ran his hands over a manila file folder.

“What is Sebastian Cavalli a known suspect for?” I eyed the folder uneasily.

Opening the file, he scanned the contents. Important government agents haven’t upgraded to digital devices in interrogations yet? “He’s been accused of working with organized crime groups such as the Cavalli family mafia in New York and Rome to launder money.”

“I see.” Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. He didn’t suspect me of being part of those money-laundering operations. Did he?

Lucas didn’t seem trigger-happy or like he was going to throw me in prison if I said the wrong thing. But he was also part of the FBI. Which meant he was going to use ‘just doing his job’ as an excuse if I said anything incriminating.

Pastor Tony had been wrong about me. I would never escape my past or fix my mistakes. I would only be punished for them. Even if God forgave me, the law wouldn’t.

“Why did you leave Canada for Europe, Mr. Devereaux?” Lucas glanced down at the stack of papers in front of him.

“I left to pursue my dreams of becoming an artist.” That wasn’t a lie, though it felt like one as my heart bruised my ribs.

“Yes, but according to cell phone records, you also left at the behest of Sebastian Cavalli, who had promised he would use his connections to get your art into museums, correct?”

Shoulders tensing, I answered. “Sebastian and I were friends at the time. He was the one who brought up the idea of going to Europe when I told him that I didn’t want to stay in Canada.”

“Why did you want to leave Canada, Mr. Devereaux?”

“My father wanted me to run his company, and that wasn’t the life I wanted to live.” They were black and white statements of what had happened. Yet I knew if I pried beneath them just a little, I would see the pain that still simmered beneath.

“So you ran away from your father’s expectations for you and went to Italy with your friend,” he said.

“Yep.”

“And when you got to Europe, where did you go first?”

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