Chapter 4: Midnight Confessions
I sat in my apartment for three hours, staring at Victoria's phone number and trying to decide if meeting her would make me brave or stupid. Probably both.
The smart thing would be to call Detective Morrison and tell him about Victoria's call. But something in her voice had sounded genuinely frightened, not like someone trying to cover up a murder.
At nine-thirty, I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
The Bean—officially called Cloud Gate—looked different at night. During the day it was surrounded by tourists taking selfies, but now it stood alone in the darkness reflecting the city lights. A few late joggers passed by, their footsteps echoing across the empty plaza.
I checked my phone. Five minutes early. Part of me hoped Victoria wouldn't show up, that this whole nightmare would somehow disappear if I just waited long enough.
"Thank you for coming."
I spun around to find Victoria emerging from behind one of the nearby sculptures. She looked different—older somehow, with worry lines around her eyes that I hadn't noticed before.
"Are you going to tell me what's really going on?"
"Walk with me," she said, glancing nervously at the shadows around us. "It's not safe to stay in one place too long."
We started walking toward the lake, our footsteps the only sound besides distant traffic.
"The Ashford Gallery has been in my family for thirty years," Victoria began. "My father started it as a legitimate business, but after he died, I discovered that some of his acquisitions weren't exactly legal."
"You mean stolen?"
"Some stolen, some forged, some purchased from questionable sources during wartime. The kind of pieces that legitimate museums won't touch, but private collectors pay millions for."
I felt sick. "And you kept selling them?"
Victoria stopped walking and turned to face me. "At first, I tried to return everything to the rightful owners. But it's complicated, Lucy. Some of these pieces have been missing for decades. The original owners are dead, their families scattered. And meanwhile, I had employees depending on me, overhead costs, a business to run."
"So you decided to keep profiting from stolen art."
"I decided to be more careful about what I sold and who I sold it to. I thought I could manage the risk, keep the business afloat while gradually transitioning to completely legitimate pieces."
We reached the lakefront, where the water lapped gently against the concrete barriers.
"What does this have to do with Rebecca Stone?"
"Rebecca was working on her senior thesis about art theft recovery. She'd been visiting galleries around Chicago, asking questions about provenance documentation, authentication processes. Smart questions."
"Too smart."
"She came to my gallery three times in the past month. The first two visits, I thought she was just another student doing research. But the third time, she asked specifically about a Monet that we sold two years ago."
My stomach dropped. "A stolen Monet?"
"Taken from a private collection in France during World War II. The family has been searching for it ever since. Rebecca somehow connected our sale to the original theft."
"How?"
"I don't know. But she scheduled a meeting with me for yesterday morning, said she had proof of illegal activity and wanted to give me a chance to explain before she went to the FBI."
I stared out at the dark water, trying to process what Victoria was telling me.
"So you killed her?"
"No!" Victoria's voice was sharp with frustration. "I was going to tell her everything, cooperate with whatever investigation she wanted to start. I'm tired of living with this secret, Lucy. Tired of looking over my shoulder."
"Then who killed her?"
"There are other people involved in the art theft network. People who have more to lose than I do. People who don't want their names connected to stolen masterpieces."
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the lake breeze.
"You're saying there's a whole network of people dealing in stolen art?"
"Dealers, authenticators, private collectors, auction houses. It's a multi-million dollar business, Lucy. Rebecca's investigation threatened all of them."
"And now they think I know what she knew."
"Yes. Because I invited you to exhibit at my gallery. Because you were there when her body was discovered. They assume I told you something during our meetings."
I thought about Detective Morrison's questions, about how suspicious my involvement must look to the police.
"What am I supposed to do? Go into hiding? Leave Chicago?"
"I have a better idea," Victoria said, pulling a manila envelope from her jacket. "These are copies of authentication documents for every questionable piece my gallery has sold in the past five years. Names, dates, sale prices, everything."
I took the envelope with shaking hands. "Why are you giving me this?"
"Because I trust you. And because if something happens to me, someone needs to make sure this information gets to the right people."
"Victoria, this is insane. I'm not equipped to handle something like this."
"You're stronger than you think, Lucy. I've seen your art—it takes courage to create something that honest, that raw. You have more strength inside you than you realize."
Her words reminded me of something my third foster mother used to say, back when I still believed adults who promised to take care of me.
"What about the police? Detective Morrison seems decent."
"Maybe he is. But there are people in the Chicago PD who've been paid to look the other way on certain art sales. I don't know who can be trusted."
A car drove slowly through the parking area behind us, its headlights sweeping across the plaza. Victoria grabbed my arm.
"We need to go. Separately. Don't go home tonight—they probably know where you live."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"Somewhere public. A hotel, maybe, or stay with a friend. Someone they wouldn't expect."
I thought of Tommy, but involving him felt wrong. He'd already warned me about the gallery opportunity, and I'd ignored his concerns.
"Victoria, what aren't you telling me? There's something else, isn't there?"
She hesitated, studying my face in the dim light.
"Your art, Lucy. The pieces you brought to the gallery. There's something about your style, your technique, that reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
"I can't explain it right now. But I promise you, everything will make sense soon."
She started walking away, then stopped and looked back.
"Lucy? Be careful who you trust. This goes deeper than either of us realized."
After she disappeared into the darkness, I stood by the lake for another ten minutes, clutching the envelope and trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: We know you have something that belongs to us. Return it, or join Rebecca Stone.
I ran all the way back to Michigan Avenue, my heart pounding and the envelope tucked inside my jacket like a bomb waiting to explode.
Whatever Victoria had given me, people were willing to kill for it.
And I was pretty sure I was about to find out just how far they'd go to get it back.