“Pretty name,” I hear myself saying before I realize it.
He makes a strangled noise, and my heart thuds down into my feet. I take a deep breath, as quietly as I can.
If he’s seeing someone, that’s none of my business.
Easy to say. Logical and rational. And inside me, something wilts. No, it is pulverized, like a flower crushed under a heel.
It takes me a moment to remember why I’m holding his phone. Then I force myself and hit the Play button on the seller’s message.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice wavers with uncertainty. “Mr. Connolly? I tried to message you on the platform, but I haven’t received a response. I wanted . . .” She pauses, and when she comes back, her voice is firmer. “I needed to notify you that the painting has been sold to another buyer. No charge was made to your account, and I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.”
“What?” I say, my voice rising. “She can’t do that. Can I call her back, or do you want to?”
He doesn’t answer, and when I look over, his gaze is distant. I remember the other message. I remember Theodora. He’s still thinking about that. Still trying to figure out how to tell me.
Stop it.
“Aiden? Did you want me to call back?”
“I’m considering our options.”
I relax a little. He switches lanes and then says, “I propose we don’t return the call. That we pretend I didn’t receive the message. I am driving, after all.”
“Show up on her doorstep expecting the painting? Making her face us when she says she sold it out from under you?”
“Precisely.”
Chapter Four
Four
After work, I’d changed my clothing, in case Connolly’s idea of dinner out was a place with a dress code. It’s happened before, to our mutual embarrassment. I mean, if you’re the kind of guy who dresses like him even on Saturdays, you don’t realize when places have dress codes because no one ever stops you. Even if he’s not wearing a tie and jacket, they’ll make an exception, because he’s still better dressed than three-quarters of their patrons. On the other hand, if you’re me, you can’t remember the last time you went to a restaurant with a dress code.
So while I’m not exactly in black-tie garb, I am wearing a dress and low heels, and I’m glad of that as we walk to Ms. Silver’s front door. I look as if I’m with him, and not an employee he brought along to carry the painting.
He rings the bell. When no one answers, he pushes again, harder. The door cracks open, and the sliver of a woman’s face appears.
“Hello?”
“Aiden Connolly,” he says. “I’ve come for my painting.”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
He frowns. “Message?”
“I called.”
He takes out his phone. “Ah, I have it on Do Not Disturb when I drive. Did you need me to meet you someplace else to pick it up?”
“I, uh, I can’t sell you the painting.”
He stares at her for five excruciating seconds before speaking, annoyance sharpening his tone. “I said it was a two-hour drive, and you called when I was already on the road. Is there an issue with me taking possession tonight?”
“I . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I sold the painting to someone else.”
Silence. Connolly lets it stretch a beat too long before he says, “I believe I misheard. You seem to have said you sold it to someone else, which cannot possibly be the case because I bought it.” He looks her square in the eye. “In good faith.”
This is where his privilege truly shines. His bearing. His expression. Even his accent, more Boston than my own, more clipped and cultured. The guy bought a cursed painting off eBay, but he acts as if he purchased a grand master from Sotheby’s, and the seller quails under that look.
“Did I not agree to pay the asking price?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you not accept that offer?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do I not have . . .” He raises his phone. “Proof that you accepted my offer, on a legitimate sales website.” His chin jerks up, as if a thought has just occurred to him. “Did you perpetuate a scam, Ms. Silver?”
“W-what?”
“A scam. I purchased goods intended to be sent through the mail, across state lines, which makes this a federal offense. You intended to take my money and withhold the goods. Only I arranged to pick them up—at an additional fee, despite saving you the mailing charge—and you didn’t know how to say no without it seeming suspicious. So you agreed, and then messaged me that it was already sold, meaning I cannot prove you never had the goods in the first place. Or so you think. Fraud can certainly be proven. My lawyers will make sure of it.”
She tries to withdraw.
“Yes, it is your right to close the door, Ms. Silver. I will take that as a sign that you wish me to leave your property, which I will do. At that point, the matter is in the hands of our respective attorneys. I will leave my lawyer’s card in your mailbox. It’s a small firm and perhaps not terribly impressive, but that is the price one pays when one’s family employs their own team of lawyers.”
She stops closing the door. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Does that mean you wish to discuss compensation?”
“C-compensation?”
“Not money, though if the lawyers are involved, obviously money will be required. They may be employed by my family, but that does not mean their work comes free. I believe their current rate is five hundred an hour. However, it is my hope that we can resolve this without involving lawyers or any form of cash compensation.”
The door cracks open a little more. She says nothing, just waits.
“Let us start with you explaining how you came to sell my painting to another buyer.”
“I didn’t want to. He threatened me. With legal action. Just like you’re doing.”
“I’m threatening you because you committed fraud against me. What was his excuse?”
“He painted it.”
I rock forward before stopping myself. Connolly nods toward me.
“This is my partner, Ms. Bennett.”
Her gaze travels over me, and I feel the weight of the assessment. She’s trying to figure out whether he means business partner or personal, and I’ll admit to being gratified that the answer doesn’t seem immediately obvious.
“Ms. Bennett is an expert in the field of anthropologically significant art,” Connolly says.
“Anthro . . .?” she repeats.
“This painting is the subject of a well-known urban legend, as you alluded to in your listing. Ms. Bennett believes it is the original, and she came to confirm that before I bought it.”
“You said the artist bought it?” I say. “The original artist? I’m presuming he showed identification.”
“I-I . . .” she begins. Then she opens the door a little wider as she nods decisively. “Victor Costa was the name of the painter, and it was also the name on his credit card.”
“So Mr. Costa contacted you and offered to buy it for more?”