Page 64 of Canvas of Lies
They would serve me even better now.
Soon, very soon, I’d enjoy showing her exactly what “computer stuff” I was really capable of.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kat
Acrosstown,stillhiddenaway in the woods two days later, Nico tapped away at his laptop keyboard while I flipped through channels on the small TV in the living room. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was planning, but it was clear he was preparing himself for some kind of action.
With a sigh, I draped my head back over the arm of the couch to send him an upside-down glance. As if he felt my eyes on him, he lifted his head and smiled, his expression softening.
“Not much longer, Kitten.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the deep voice of a newscaster caught my attention. Nico’s gaze followed mine back to the TV.
“Next up, we have a last minute addition—another exclusive interview with Aidan Willoughby by ourown Evelyn Masters. We’re News Seven at Seven, your only source for up to the minute news.”
Nico rose to join me on the couch, so I curled up in a ball to give him space at the other end. Once he was seated, he wrapped a hand around my ankles and tugged my feet, clad in fleecy socks with lambs dancing across them, into his lap.
I frowned as a brief report on a robbery gone wrong played across the screen. Some art historian had walked in on an intruder at his apartment in the rougher outskirts of town and had been killed in the resulting altercation. Apparently the victim had an arrest record for forgery back in the early nineties. Both of us stiffened upon hearing the word “art,” then relaxed again when there was no mention of my father or the Clément painting.
“I’m surprised Evelyn didn’t text me that she was meeting with him again,” I murmured.
“Last minute addition, they said. Maybe she didn’t have time to give you a head’s up? It would be just like your father to call her on short notice. Anything to make a splash, you know?”
I puffed my cheeks as I blew out a breath. “I guess you’re right.”
While the introductory music for the news program played, Nico lifted my foot into his hand and pressed his thumb into my arch, biting back a smile at my quiet moan. Between the stress, the uncertainty, and the lingering nightmares plaguing me after the crash, I was nearing my breaking point and he knew it.
I just hoped we’d have some good news soon and that whatever came out of my father’s mouth during this interview didn’t make things worse.
As before, the interview took place in my father’s home office, but the Clément painting was now propped on an easel between the two chairs. My father had a charming smile on his face as he returned Evelyn’s greeting.
“Mr. Willoughby, when we spoke earlier today, you said you wished to address the very public claims circulating this week, both from your ex-wife and from unknown parties, questioning the true origins of this beautiful piece of artwork. What would you like to tell our viewers tonight?”
“Thank you, Evelyn. It’s not widely known, you see, but I happen to be hopelessly colorblind. Impressionist art is particularly hard for me to process, as lovely as others tell me it is. After all this attention, I’m afraid I must admit that there’s been a grave mistake on my part. This painting right here was moved into the house by my staff after the death of my very good friend and personal chef, Pierre Beaumont, a number of years back. In our earlier interview, I mistook this painting for the one you see now above the fireplace.”
The camera panned upward to a remarkably similar painting in a slightly different color palette. I sputtered in disbelief, but Nico squeezed my foot as the interview continued. Evelyn and my father discussed the origin of what he kept calling his true family treasure, and with a self-deprecating smile, he explainedhow easily he’d confused the two after so many years without coming across them side by side.
Though I was sure my eyes were about to roll right out of my skull, Nico stared intently at the screen, waiting.
“I cannot apologize enough to the entire Beaumont family for this terrible mistake. As a gesture of good will, I intend to see to the legal procedures necessary to establish ownership for the family—pro bono, of course. I hope they’ll view this as an equitable solution on all sides,” my father finished, smiling apologetically into the camera.
“What a lovely gesture,” Evelyn replied. “I’m sure it will be much appreciated.”
This time, I didn’t bother to hide my disgust. “What the actual fuck?”
With another rueful smile, my father went on. “Unfortunately, the painting that’s been in the Willoughby family all these years has been assessed as having little monetary value, though it holds a great deal of sentimentality for myself and my family. If my ex-wife wishes to pursue her half of a few hundred dollars, I suppose that’s her right.”
As the interview finished up and the channel went back to their standard news report, I turned stunned eyes toward Nico.
“What is he trying to pull here?” I asked, baffled. “He’s not colorblind at all.”
Nico rubbed his forehead. “Fuck if I know. Either your father has suddenly grown a sense of honor, which I highly doubt, or there’s something we’re missing.”
“What do we do now? Stay here, go home? Could this be a trap?”
It didn’tfeelquite like a trap—my father definitely wasn’t stupid enough to set one on public television—but Nico didn’t seem eager to throw us both back into the fray, either.
