Page 32 of Canvas of Lies
Kat frowned a little. “Why would he have even bothered with that particular painting?”
“Right.” From her expression, I knew she was puzzling things over.
“Then he should have had no idea who the artist really was. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but my father’s not exactly a connoisseur of fine art. Anything owned by one of his household staff would’ve been considered below him—he wouldn’t have taken it just because it was pretty.”
For a long moment, I stayed quiet. When I looked over at her, my brows drawn low over my eyes, I said, “I hadn’t really thought about that, but you’re right. I don’t know why he would’ve taken it, if he didn’t know it was worth anything.”
“Your dad must have known who painted it though, right? He never said as much to me, certainly never gave me a name. Not that the name of an artist would’ve meant much to me at the time, but it always seemed like there was more to the story. He’d get this smile on his face, like he was feeding me clues, waiting for me to figure it out. I never did, though.”
“Yes, he knew, and he told me, though he warned me that it needed to stay secret. Probably for this exact reason.”
“I always hoped he’d loop me in, make me part of your family instead of my own.”
I felt another twinge of guilt for not realizing how unhappy she had been all those years ago, but I nodded. It hadn’t occurred to me just how helpful it would be to have someone to talk this through, someone who knew the people involved as intimately as I did.
“Kitten, you have to know that he did consider you family, whether he told you the whole story or not. I was sixteen before I heard the name Hugo Clément. He told me while we were in France.”
I watched her swallow the hurt flashing in her eyes before she asked, “When did the news first break about Clément being the artist?”
“About six months ago,” I answered, studying her now with interest.
For as long as I could remember, Kat always got a certain look on her face when the wheels in that brilliant mind turned at full tilt, and she wore it right then. Anything was better than the note of sadness that crept into her eyes, even if the alternative meant she’d gone into her most devious state of mind.
“Did you ever look into the source of the leak?”
My mouth opened, then snapped shut before I finally shook my head. “No. I didn’t think it would matter, but I guess I assumed some hoity-toity guest had spotted it at the house or something. Your father runs with a pretty ritzy crowd and art collecting seems like a rich person's hobby.”
Kat smirked. “That’s true, and I guess it’s a plausible explanation. But what ifheleaked it? What if he knew the painting was done by Clément when your father died, and that’s why he took it in the first place?”
“My father wouldn’t have told him that,” I replied quickly, but she shot me a soft, sympathetic glance.
“Nico, your father was ill. Dying. Do you remember that time I got food poisoning in seventh grade?”
My brows lifted. “Yeah, from that seafood buffet I told you not to visit.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius. Anyway, in between bouts of puke, I was rambling—you recorded some of it because I kept talking about ocean insects and aliens. We listened to it by the creek a few days later and I thought you were going to sprain something laughing so hard.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, still unclear about where she was going with this.
“What if your dad was feverish or delirious? What if he thought he was talking to you in those final hours while my father or one of his minions was nearby? Who knows what he might have said?”
She reached over to lay a hand against my cheek. I knew it broke her heart to speak so callously, but what she said made sense. I managed a weak nod, considering the ramifications of the scene she’d just painted.
“It would be more believable than my father pulling a random painting off a wall just to spite you, no matter how much he hated you,” she finished.
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered.
Everything she’d proposed was far more likely than my own assumption that Aidan Willoughby had recognized a treasure when he saw it. In truth, I was a little embarrassed I hadn’tthought of it myself. I sighed heavily and realized I should’ve asked for her help much sooner.
“You’re a genius, Kitten. If you’re right about this, then your father has known all along how valuable that painting is.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Which means he’s playing the long game, which in turn means he has a plan. Whatever that plan might be, I can assure you it isnotgoing to involve trading the painting for something as useless to him as the daughter he never wanted.”
I grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her onto my lap, scowling down at her. “Look, I’ll agree to exploring other options, Kitten, but only if you stop referring to yourself like that. It breaks my heart.”
Blue eyes wide with surprise, she leaned back to look at me. “It does? Why?”
“Because,” I murmured, placing tiny kisses from one corner of her mouth to the other, “while my father might have been the one who made you feel like you weren’t a failure, you’ve always been that person for me.”
