Page 71 of The Girl You Left Behind
Janey Dickinson
Directors, TARP
She stares at the name at the bottom of the page and the room recedes. She rereads the words, thinking this must be a joke. No, this is another Paul McCafferty, an entirely different Paul McCafferty. There must be hundreds of them. It’s a common enough name. And then she remembers the peculiar way he had looked at the painting three days earlier, the way he had been unable to meet her eye afterward. She sits down heavily in her chair.
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
“I wish it was.”
“What the hell is TARP?”
“We trace missing works of art and oversee their restoration to their original owners.”
“We?” She stares at the letter. “What... what does this have to do with me?”
“The Girl You Left Behindis the subject of a restitution request. The painting is by an artist called Édouard Lefèvre. His family wants it back.”
“But... this is ridiculous. I’ve had it for years. Years. The best part of a decade.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another letter, with a photocopied image. “This came to the office a couple of weeks ago. It was sitting in my in-tray. I didn’t know your married name or I might have put the two things together. Then, when you invited me up the other night, I recognized it immediately.”
She scans it, glances at the photocopied page. Her own painting stares back at her from the colored page, its colors muddied through reproduction. “TheArchitectural Digest.”
“Yeah. I think that was it.”
“They came here to do a piece on the Glass House when we were first married.” Her hand lifts to her mouth. “David thought it would be good publicity for his practice.”
“The Lefèvre family have been conducting an audit into all Édouard Lefèvre’s works, and during the course of it they discovered several were missing. One isThe Girl You Left Behind.There is no documented history for it after 1917. Can you tell me where you got it?”
“This is crazy. It was... David bought it from an American woman. In Barcelona.”
“A gallery owner? Have you got a receipt for it?”
“Of sorts. But it’s not worth anything. She was going to throw it away. It was out on the street.”
Paul runs a hand over his face. “Do you know who this woman was?”
Liv shakes her head. “It was years ago.”
“Liv, you have to remember. This is important.”
She explodes: “I can’t remember! You can’t come in here and tell me I have to justify ownership of my own painting just because someone somewhere has decided it once belonged to them a million years ago! I mean, what is this?” She walks around the kitchen table. “I—I can’t get my head round it.”
Paul rests his face in his hands. He lifts his head and looks at her. “Liv, I’m really sorry. This is the worst case I’ve ever dealt with.”
“Case?”
“This is what I do. I look for stolen works of art and I return them to their owners.”
She hears the strange implacability in his voice. “But this isn’t stolen. David bought it, fair and square. And then he gave it to me. It’s mine.”
“It was stolen, Liv. Nearly a hundred years ago, yes, but it was stolen. Look, the good news is that they’re willing to offer some financial compensation.”
“Compensation? You think this is about money?”
“I’m just saying—”
She stands, lifts her hand to her brow. “You know what, Paul? I think you’d better leave.”
