Page 13 of Silence and Surrender

Everything a lie.

I took a sip of wine, flipping back through my files on Devereux Private Bank’s recent acquisitions. Paintings purchased from museums and collectors who still had them. Art moving through shipping lanes with weights that defied possibility. Money flowing like water through expertly crafted documentation. Documentation that I had helped authenticate.

I was sickened with what I saw, what I had helped contribute to without knowing.

My phone buzzed—a text from Charles at Christie’s:

Devereux’s head counsel asking questions about recent acquisitions. Anything I should know?

Moreau. Of course he was starting to pull at the threads too. I’d noticed him at the bank today, moving through the corridors with that contained power he wore like his tailored suits. But there’d been tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes.

I knew he had been seeing the patterns, too. And after our meeting, he was even more disturbed.

Just like I knew he would be. He might be insufferable, but I knew his moral compass would direct him to my side. I’d seen it for the past five years.

Sighing, I opened my father’s old notebooks, their familiar leather binding worn smooth from years of use. Antoine Delacroix had documented everything, every major sale, every private collection, every whispered rumor of art moving through shadows.

An entry caught my eye: Devereux, from five years ago. A series of sales that had made my father uncomfortable enough to document in detail.

Something not right about the manifests, he’d written.Weights inconsistent. Routes circuitous. Money moving but no art actually changing hands.

The same pattern. Five years ago.

My hands shook slightly as I reached for my wine. Outside, I could just make out the London Eye, its slow passage through the fog seeming to mimic my tired mind.

Another file, another claimed acquisition: The Louvre’sBelle Ferronnière.Legit documentation showing its purchase and transport. But Moreau had flagged that one in his audit, meaning he’d thought it was bogus as well.

I pulled up the bank’s records, cross-referencing dates and locations. Eight hundred million euros in art acquisitions over six months. Art that, as far as I could tell, had never actually moved.

But something had moved. The shipping weights proved that.

My doorbell rang, making me jump. It was probably just my neighbor, Mrs. Hudson, wanting to borrow tea again. I checked the security camera, but the hallway was empty.

Goosebumps prickled along my arms. I double-checked the locks, then called building security. “Has anyone come up to the penthouse level?”

“No, Miss Delacroix. All quiet tonight.”

I forced my voice to stay steady. “The doorbell just rang.”

“We’ll check the cameras. Want us to come up?”

“No, it’s fine.” But it wasn’t. “Just wanted to verify.”

I returned to my desk, but the files suddenly felt dangerous. Evidence of something I wasn’t supposed to see. Something bigger than art fraud or money laundering.

My phone rang, Moreau this time. I was surprised to see his call come through.

“Are you at home?” There was no greeting, no pretense. His voice was tightly controlled.

“Yes. Why?”

“Stay there. Don’t open any files for a few hours. System maintenance.”

I was smart enough to read between the lines. He was issuing me a warning. Someone was watching the servers.

“Understood.” I kept my voice professional. “Will the maintenance affect tomorrow’s acquisition reviews?”

“No, we’ll discuss the reviews then.” More code. He wanted to meet and dig further in this giant hole I was unearthing.

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