Page 102 of Forging Caine

That was it. That was the moment.

Not only would he never leave me, hewouldalways come after me.

Mrs. Samantha Ferraro, dammit.

There was no way Fiori and his crew of goons would take that away from me.

I flipped back to Lucy’s video. Fortunately, Zane’s account was logged in, so I typed my comment:

Found a 16th Century. Baroque painting at auction. I was hoping you could help with it?

Do you know how. A painting. Named. Girl with a Pearl. Earring was prepared? Rough sketches or blocking?

Comment below. Or. Not. Do you know any. Others who could help?

Many thanks, an art lover in a polyalpha space.

The sixteen century Baroque would tell her it was me. She’d figured out my dad’s letter was a polyalphabetic code and she’d identified the space first, so she’d know there was a code hidden inside. And the first letter after every piece of punctuation spelled out FBI DANGER CONDO.

It was dangerous. But what other choice did I have?

My hand rested on the mouse, finger ready to click. The message was a reasonable request based on their video. I could explain it away if they challenged me.

If it worked, Lucy would call Elliot. They’d go to the condo to find out the danger. The photos of Cass and Sofia were still there, as well as Antonio’s notes all over the wall. They’d get our families to safety.

Then what? They didn’t know where we were.

If I included an address in the comment, there’d be no explaining that.

This is a stupid plan, Sam. Just use Antonio’s phone to call Elliot.

“Samantha!” hollered Zane, startling me so much I jumped.

My stomach dropped. I’d hit the mouse button.

I had to delete it.

“I was asking you if—” Zane kept talking.

Adrenaline spiked through my body, but I figured out how to delete the comment. There was no proof I’d sent it. If they were tracking it, had I acted fast enough?

Zane marched over to the desk. “Are you listening to me?”

“No, Zane, I’m not.” I shoved the chair back and stood. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

To vomit.

Chapter 35

Antonio

Imademywaythrough another garden, full of shoots rising from the dirt, surrounding a stone fountain topped with a reclining woman pouring water. Birds flitted about the garden, a particular robin whistling at me so much there must have been a nest nearby.

Walking the grounds—and knowing Cristian was preparing—had given me the inspiration to move on.

The two Rembrandts would come first. Same painter, similar timeframe, so the first step would be to compare and contrast. I’d also compiled a mental list of resources who could help. Conservators, researchers, and possibly Samantha’s other old intern boss, Thomas Grange at the British Museum. He’d worked for me in Pompeii and we’d become good friends over that time.

Rembrandt had done enough work that I could spread the questions out without raising suspicion and I could mull over the Manet and the Flinck as I worked.

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