Chapter 6: Family Secrets
Sarah arrived exactly one hour later,
"We need to talk," she said, settling onto the safe house's small couch. "What I found is going to be difficult to hear."
My stomach clenched. "Just tell me."
Sarah opened her laptop and pulled up a scanned document a birth certificate from 1959.
"L. Carter was Linda Marie Carter. Born in Chicago, died in 1988. She was a painter, specialized in landscapes and portraits. Sold her work through small galleries throughout the Midwest."
I stared at the document, trying to process what this meant.
"So there really was another L. Carter. Someone whose style happened to match mine."
"It's more than that, Lucy." Sarah's voice was gentle but firm. "Linda Carter had a daughter. Born in 1987, given up for adoption immediately after birth."
The room went silent except for the sound of my own heartbeat.
"What was the daughter's name?"
"Lucy Marie Carter."
"That's not possible. My birth mother's name was Jennifer something. The social worker told me."
"Social workers sometimes change details to protect birth parents' privacy. Lucy, I think Linda Carter was your biological mother."
I stood up abruptly,
"No. No, this is too convenient. Too much of a coincidence."
"Is it? Think about it. You've been painting since you were a child, right? You told Tommy you felt compelled to create art, like breathing."
"Lots of people feel that way about art."
"But how many people develop a painting style identical to someone they've never met? Someone who died when they were barely a year old?"
I sank back onto the couch, my head spinning.
"Sarah, are you saying I inherited my mother's artistic style? That's not how genetics works."
"I'm not talking about genetics. I'm talking about something else." She pulled up another document on her laptop. "Linda Carter lived in the same building where you were placed with your first foster family. Same address."
My blood went cold. "The Hendersons. They lived at 1247 North Wells."
"That's right. And according to these records, Linda Carter owned the building. She lived in apartment 3A."
I remembered the building
"I don't remember anyone named Linda Carter."
"She'd been dead for years by the time you lived there.
"So?"
"So maybe you absorbed something from that environment. Maybe her paintings were still there, stored in the basement or tucked away in closets. Maybe you saw her work without realizing it."
I closed my eyes, trying to remember details from that apartment building.
And now that I thought about it, there had been paintings in the basement. Old canvases covered with sheets, stacked against the walls. I'd assumed they belonged to former tenants who'd left things behind.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
"What?"
"There were paintings in the basement. Dozens of them. I used to sneak down there and look at them when the Hendersons weren't watching."
Sarah nodded grimly. "I think you found your mother's work. And I think you unconsciously learned her techniques by studying those paintings."
"But I was seven years old. How could I remember enough detail to replicate her style years later?"
I stood up again, needing to move, needing to process this information.
"Sarah, if Linda Carter was my birth mother, and her paintings are being sold through Victoria's gallery, what does that mean?"
"It means someone has been forging her work for decades. Using her name, her reputation, to sell paintings to collectors."
"And now they're using my signature too."
"That's what it looks like. They probably discovered that your style matches hers and decided to expand their operation."
The implications hit me like a physical blow.
"Victoria. She knew, didn't she? She knew about Linda Carter, knew I was her daughter. That's why she contacted me out of nowhere."
I think Victoria Ashford has been playing a longer game than any of us realized
My secure phone rang. The caller ID showed Tommy's number.
"Lucy, you need to see the news. Channel 7."
I grabbed the remote and flipped to the local news station. A reporter stood outside the Ashford Gallery, speaking into a microphone while police tape fluttered in the background.
"—second victim found dead in what police are now calling a connected series of art world murders. The body of Dr. Richard Ashford, brother of missing gallery owner Victoria Ashford, was discovered this morning in his Lincoln Park home."
. Sarah grabbed my arm to steady me.
"Dr. Ashford was a respected art authenticator who worked with galleries throughout the Midwest," the reporter continued. "Sources close to the investigation say his death may be connected to the murder of Northwestern University student Rebecca Stone, whose body was found at the Ashford Gallery earlier this week."
The reporter held up a photograph that made my blood freeze.
It was a painting. One I'd never seen before, but signed with my distinctive signature.
"Police are asking for the public's help in locating this painting, believed to be connected to both murders. Anyone with information is urged to contact Chicago PD immediately."
I turned off the television and stared at Sarah.
"They're framing me," I whispered. "Someone is killing people and leaving paintings with my signature at the crime scenes."
"Or," Sarah said quietly, "someone is cleaning house. Getting rid of everyone who knew about the forgery operation."
"Including me."
"Including you."
My phone rang again. This time, the number was blocked.
"Don't answer it," Sarah said immediately.
But I was already pressing accept.
"Lucy?" Victoria's voice was barely above a whisper. "Thank God. Are you somewhere safe?"
"Safe? Your brother is dead, Victoria. Dead with one of my paintings."
"That wasn't your painting. It was another forgery, just like the landscape I showed you in the documents."
"Then who's creating them?"
The line was quiet for so long I thought she'd hung up.
"Victoria?"
"Lucy, I need you to meet me. One more time. There are things about your mother—about Linda Carter—that you need to know."
"You knew she was my mother all along."
"Yes. And I know who's been forging her work. Who killed Rebecca and Richard. Who's trying to frame you for murder."
"Then tell me now."
"Not over the phone. It's not safe. Meet me at the old warehouse district,
"Victoria, I'm not stupid enough to meet you alone in an abandoned warehouse."
"Bring backup if you want. But Lucy, if you don't come tonight, more people are going to die.
The line went dead.
I looked at Sarah,
"Well?" I said. "What do you think?"