Page 98 of The Chase
“Thank you for everything,” I said shakily.
Tobias lowered the flowers to his side and gave a nod of understanding. “Do you guys want the pizza?”
With a shake of my head I declined it. I’d never eat again from the way my stomach wrenched.
“What about taking your paintings to The Otillie?” he said softly.
“I’ll take care of them.”
He closed his eyes as though the embarrassment had caught up and then gave a reluctant nod.
With my chest tight and my throat hurting more than it should, I watched him stroll off.
Breathing through this doubt I questioned going after him.
With him out of sight the spell was broken.
I returned to the kitchen, telling myself I’d done the right thing, though doubting I had after replaying his expression.
After Tobias’s compassion I’d betrayed him with the worst lie.
Trying to tame these trembling hands, I finished up making tea for the inspector.
“That wasn’t him?” Her stare burned my back.
With a shake of my head I pretended to be focused on pouring hot water into her mug.
When the doorbell rang again I made my way back to the front door, concerned Tobias had ignored my attempt to send him away.
A rugged, tall man with a buzz cut raised his ID. “Sergeant Mitchel. Is Inspector Ford here?” His sharp gray eyes assessed me with the ease of habit and I tried to get a read on him too, taking in his trench coat that was seemingly a little too thin to hold off the cold.
I closed the door behind us and led him toward the kitchen.
The sergeant strolled beside me, carrying himself with the kind of confidence that came from a well-practiced routine. “Parking’s a nightmare,” he said. “Took me all this time to find a space.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as though it was my fault.
Within a few minutes I made them both tea and sat opposite them, ready to face their questions.
The inspector talked me through my visit to Christie’s and I explained how I’d intended to merely check on the provenance of an Edvard Munch and ended up discovering there was a painting there resembling the one that once belonged to my family.
“You were shown theSt. Joan of Arc?” she clarified.
“Yes.”
“Your thoughts?”
I shifted in my seat. “I’m waiting on Christie’s evaluation.”
“It looked like the one you once owned?” added Mitchel.
“My dad.” I gave a nod. “I was ten when we had a house fire.”
“It was meant to have been destroyed?” Ford flipped over her notepad. “Your dad filed an insurance claim?St. Joan of Arcby Walter William Ouless was included in that claim?”
Holding my hands in my lap I forced them to still. “I believe so.”
Mitchel leaned forward. “Apparently, you have a knack for spotting fakes?”
