Chapter 2 - The Recording That Survived
At 7:14 the next morning, Anna received her first rejection.
Not from a museum.
From a restaurant.
She had never applied there.
The manager of LeMarch sent a short email informing her that, given “recent allegations concerning professional misconduct,” they could not consider her for future employment.
At 7:31, another arrived.
At 8:02, a former Bellamy’s coworker texted.
What happened? Management says you attacked Preston Blackwood.
Anna sat at her tiny kitchen table with an ice pack against her cheek.
Damian had moved quickly.
She opened the recording on her laptop.
Forty-seven minutes.
Most of it was ordinary restaurant noise before the confrontation. But the important section was clear.
Preston.
Damian.
Elias.
Even the threat about the auction.
Anna copied the file onto two flash drives.
Then emailed another copy to herself.
Then another to an account she hadn’t used since college.
She had learned something from Preston.
Never assume one copy is enough.
Her laptop chimed.
An email from an unknown address.
No subject.
Anna hesitated before opening it.
There were only eleven words.
Do not send the recording to anyone yet. Look at the portrait.
No signature.
Anna stood so quickly her chair scraped backward.
She checked the locks.
Nothing moved outside.
She returned to the charcoal portrait.
Look at the portrait.
She placed it beneath the cheap desk lamp she used for conservation practice.
Muski had drawn her with astonishing economy.
But something bothered her about the lower-right corner.
Anna tilted the paper.
Indentations.
She retrieved a graphite stick from her supplies and lightly shaded a sheet placed over the back.
Numbers emerged.
41.8827
Then another set.
-87.6233
Coordinates.
Chicago.
Anna entered them into a map.
The location pointed to an old warehouse district near the river.
She stared at the screen.
Going alone would be reckless.
Calling the police seemed obvious.
Then she remembered Damian’s statement.
This building belongs to me. So do the cameras.
A man with Damian’s wealth could erase restaurant footage before Anna finished explaining what happened.
But he couldn’t erase her recording.
Anna called someone else.
Professor Helen Ward had supervised her thesis.
She answered on the third ring.
“Anna?”
“I need you to tell me whether I’m losing my mind.”
“That depends. Is this about dating or paintings?”
Despite everything, Anna almost smiled.
“Paintings.”
“Good. I’m qualified for that.”
Anna photographed the signature and sent it.
Silence followed.
Then Helen whispered, “Where did you get this?”
“Can you authenticate it?”
“Not from a photograph.”
“Does it look right?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Anna gripped the phone.
“How right?”
“Enough that I’m suddenly very interested in where you got it.”
Anna told her part of the story but withheld the recording.
When she mentioned twelve paintings, Helen stopped her.
“Twelve?”
“Yes.”
“Anna, Blackwood Heritage announced an auction yesterday. Twelve newly discovered Muskis from a private European collection.”
Anna felt cold.
“What are they worth?”
“If genuine? Collectively?”
Helen exhaled.
“Possibly two hundred million.”
Anna stared at her cracked apartment window.
Two hundred million dollars.
Now Damian’s desperation made sense.
“Anna, listen carefully. If someone is asking questions about those paintings, do not play detective.”
“Why?”
“Because art fraud at that level isn’t somebody printing fake signatures in a basement. Provenance has to be manufactured. Records altered. Experts convinced. Institutions involved.”
Anna thought about the guards.
“What if Muski himself said they were fake?”
Helen laughed once.
Then realized Anna wasn’t joking.
“Anna?”
“I’ll call you later.”
She disconnected.
At noon, Anna took a taxi to the coordinates.
The building was an abandoned printing warehouse.
She waited across the street for twenty minutes.
No movement.
Finally she entered.
“Hello?”
Dust hung in shafts of sunlight.
Dozens of empty frames leaned against brick walls.
Anna heard footsteps upstairs.
She grabbed a rusted metal rod.
“Put that down,” a voice called.
The elderly man descended slowly.
Elias.
His face was bruised.
But he was smiling.
“You came.”
“You emailed me?”
“No.”
Anna tightened her grip.
His smile vanished.
“What email?”
She showed him.
Elias read it twice.
“I didn’t send this.”
Anna stepped backward.
“Then who knew about the portrait?”
Elias looked toward the windows.
“Someone who was watching us.”
He locked the door.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“I didn’t.”
“The coordinates were in your drawing.”
“Yes. I expected you to find them eventually. Not overnight.”
Anna lowered the rod.
“Are you Elias Muski?”
The old man studied her.
“You already know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He walked toward a covered canvas.
For twenty years, Elias Muski had been a rumor.
He had refused interviews, abandoned galleries and disappeared after a devastating fire destroyed his studio and killed his younger brother, Gabriel.
Elias pulled away the cloth.
Anna stopped breathing.
A painting filled the wall.
An unfinished portrait of two brothers.
One was Elias, decades younger.
The other had the same eyes.
Gabriel.
Anna moved closer.
She knew Muski’s work.
But photographs had never captured this.
The translucent layers.
The unusual underpainting.
The almost invisible incisions beneath the pigment.
“You’re him.”
Elias nodded.
“My name is Elias Muski.”
Anna sat down.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Elias poured coffee from an ancient machine.
“Disappointed?”
“I thought you’d have a castle.”
“I had one.”
“What happened?”
“I discovered castles attract people who want what’s inside.”
He handed her a cup.
Anna showed him the recording.
When Damian’s voice played, Elias closed his eyes.
“You kept it.”
“The cloud kept it.”
“Technology occasionally justifies its existence.”
She almost laughed.
“Why does Damian need you?”
“Because collectors have questions.”
“About the twelve paintings.”
“Yes.”
“Did you paint any of them?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Elias stared at Gabriel’s portrait.
“That is the question that frightens me.”
He walked to a cabinet and removed an old photograph.
It showed Elias and Gabriel inside a studio.
Behind them were sketches.
Anna looked closer.
One composition resembled a Blackwood auction painting.
“Gabriel?”
“He was talented,” Elias said. “More technically gifted than I was in some ways. But he never exhibited under his own name.”
“Why?”
“Because he died before he could.”
Anna looked at the auction image.
“So someone used his work?”
“Not exactly.”
Elias pointed to a corner.
“Gabriel designed compositions. Studies. Experiments. After the fire, many disappeared.”
“And someone turned them into finished paintings and signed your name.”
Elias nodded.
“That’s what I believe.”
Anna felt sick.
“Why wait twenty years?”
“Because twenty years creates history.”
He explained.
A forged painting made yesterday could be tested.
But a canvas prepared decades earlier, using period pigments and historical materials, was harder.
Someone had preserved Gabriel’s studies.
Someone had access to old materials.
Someone understood Elias’s technique.
“Who?”
Elias hesitated.
Then footsteps sounded outside.
A vehicle door slammed.
Elias killed the lights.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think?”
The warehouse door shook.
Someone tried the handle.
Anna whispered, “Damian?”
Elias moved toward a rear exit.
Then Anna’s phone buzzed.
A message from Professor Ward.
Anna, I found something in the provenance records. Call me NOW.
Before Anna could respond, another message appeared.
This one from the unknown sender.
Don’t trust Helen Ward. She authenticated painting number twelve.
Anna slowly raised her eyes toward Elias.
“What?”
She showed him.
He read it.
His face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You know her,” Anna whispered.
Elias looked at the portrait of his dead brother.
“Yes.”
“How?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because Helen Ward was Gabriel’s fiancée.”
May you like
And outside, someone began pounding on the warehouse door.
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