Page 83 of Canvas of Lies
Once she nodded in agreement, I slipped from the room and waited for the sound of the lock to click before heading toward the stairs. Though I didn’t hear anything else from downstairs, I stopped at the den and grabbed the baseball bat from the wall.
Willoughby would be rolling over in his grave,I thought, then grimaced when I realized the man hadn’t been buried yet.
My bare feet were silent against the gleaming wood stairs as I made my way into the pitch black front hall. At the bottom, I paused, listening. A faint rustle met my ears and I turned to follow the sound down the hallway that led toward Willoughby’s office and the library. I was struck by the memory of creeping along this same route with Kat the night of that fateful party, both of us determined to win hide and seek by hiding somewhere no one would dare to look.
We’d won, all right, but Kat had lost too much that night for us to gloat.
I pushed aside the familiar ache that accompanied those memories of the night her life changed forever as I continued down the corridor. The house boasted a state of the art alarm system, but we’d sent Beardsley to bed early and hadn’t bothered to work through the old man’s illegibly scrawled directions in order to set it ourselves. I was silently cursing that decision when I heard the distinct sound of muttering from the library.
With the bat angled over my shoulder, I edged closer to the doorway. Part of me understood and accepted that confronting a thief was a terrible idea—what the hell did I care if someone stole from Aidan Willoughby’s vast hoard of wealth?
The other part of me had a gut feeling it wasn’t just a cat burglar searching the house for items to pawn.
Above all, I prayed Kat would actually stay put and that the police were on their way, because the baseball bat wouldbe useless if the intruder had a weapon. After a brief internal debate, I pulled my phone from my pocket and set it to record.
I forced a deep breath into my lungs as I pocketed the phone again and stepped into the doorway. Light from the old-fashioned street lamps at the front of the house spilled through the window, casting an elongated rectangle of illumination on the floor. It was so dim that I had to squint until the intruder took an angry step toward the fireplace. The glow was just enough for me to recognize the man’s face.
“Need help finding something, Mr. Chesterfield?” I asked, my voice mild despite a rush of adrenaline at my suspicions being confirmed.
The lawyer whirled around, sneering at me from across the room even as he drew a gun from his waistband. “Where’s the painting?” he growled.
I lowered the bat to lean against it like a cane, hoping the move made me look like less of a threat. “I put it in the office after everyone left. Would you like me to go fetch it for you?”
Chesterfield was a relatively fit fifty-something with the kind of physique that had been honed at a health club, but the gun gave him a distinct advantage. The way he waved it made me nervous as hell, like the man had no idea how to safely handle a firearm. Even if he didn’t mean to shoot, he could easily injure or kill me.
“Lead the way,” Chesterfield hissed. “But first, why don’t you drop that bat? You try anything stupid, I’ll put a bullet inyour brain. Either way, I still end up with that fucking painting.”
Letting the bat fall to the floor, I turned and walked toward the office, praying he wouldn’t shoot me in the back out of spite. Chesterfield sounded even more unhinged than he had earlier in the day, muttering under his breath as he followed a few paces behind me. I moved with exaggerated caution, taking slow, heavy steps down the hallway. My bare feet didn’t make much noise, but I hoped the sound of Chesterfield’s footsteps would alert Kat if she happened to follow me downstairs.
Christ, I hoped she was still safe up in the bedroom.
“How do you see this playing out, Chesterfield?” I asked, striving for a friendly tone despite the ball of dread in my stomach. I led the way into the office and flipped on the light.
Chesterfield squinted at the sudden brightness but didn’t complain. I breathed a silent sigh of relief—if the police showed up, it’d be easier for them to find the right room this way, without having to search the entire mansion.
“Where is it?” Chesterfield demanded. “Don’t screw with me, boy, or I’ll have to ask my stepdaughter, won’t I?”
Icy tendrils squeezed my heart. “Relax. You can take the painting. We’re not going to stand in your way.” I lifted a hand toward the fireplace where the wooden crate was propped against the stone surround.
The older man snatched it, an expression of pure glee crossing his features before his eyes narrowed on my face. Shoving the crate at my chest, Chesterfield ordered, “Show it to me.”
I did as I was told, grateful for any delay that might give the police time to show up before he decided I was no longer of use. When I set the framed canvas on the big oak desk, a slow smile spread across Chesterfield’s face. I dropped my gaze to the painting and let the familiar image calm me.
I needed all the help I could get.
We stood close together now, separated by only an arm’s length. My muscles tensed as I considered my next move. The gun was no longer pointed at my chest, so this was likely the best chance I’d get at wrestling it out of Chesterfield’s hands, if I decided to go that route. Silently, I wondered if there was any possibility the man might simply take the painting and walk away—murder was a serious step up from burglary, after all.
Before I could consider my next course of action, the truth hit me like a ton of bricks.
“It was you,” I breathed. “You’re the one who sent that car to run us off the road. You had Willoughby killed.”
Chesterfield barely looked at me, focused as he was on the painting. “They’ll never tie me to any of it. It was all my darling Julia’s idea, after all.”
“All of that for a painting?” My mind scrabbled for a foothold, some way to keep Chesterfield talking until the police arrived.
“Are you defending that rat bastard? He had no qualms about stealing it from your family, did he? Did you really want him for a father-in-law? Aidan Willoughby didn’t deserve this beauty any more than he deserved Julia. He wouldn’t give herwhat she needed, but I will. With this, I’ll give her anything her heart desires.”
Angled away from the window as he was, Chesterfield didn’t see the motion lights flicker on along the winding driveway, but I did. I thought quickly through the options, realizing that telling Chesterfield it was a forgery seemed like a surefire way to send the man into a rage.
