Chapter 7 - THE CONFRONTATION
“Stay behind me,” I whispered to Hannah, pushing her gently toward the back wall of the attic.
Richard took another step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The iron poker hung loosely by his side, but the threat in his posture was absolute. This wasn’t the charismatic gallery owner anymore; this was a cornered animal.
“You aren’t getting on that plane, Richard,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the terror racing through my veins. “I have the flash drive. I know about the offshore accounts in my name.”
“Which is exactly why you are going to hand over that key,” Richard replied smoothly. “If you expose me, I expose you. The feds will look at the paper trail. They’ll see your signature on the shell companies. Who do you think they’re going to believe? A respected businessman, or a jealous, hysterical wife who made a scene at his gala?”
“They’ll believe the ledgers in that safety deposit box,” I shot back.
Richard laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “You don’t even know which bank that key belongs to, Catherine. Your mother was a clever old bat, I’ll give her that. But she’s dead. And I’m standing right here.”
He raised the iron poker slightly.
“Give me the key. Give me the flash drive. I’ll leave the country, and I’ll leave you enough money to keep this house. You keep your mouth shut, and nobody goes to jail.”
“You stole her legacy!” Hannah shouted from behind me, her voice trembling but fierce. “You tried to let Vanessa put her name on Grandma’s painting!”
Richard’s face hardened. “It’s just paint on canvas, Hannah! Grow up! The world runs on money, not sentimentality. Now give me the key, Catherine, before I have to take it from you.”
He lunged forward.
I didn't think. I grabbed the nearest object—the heavy plastic bin full of my mother’s old hardback books—and shoved it forward with all my strength.
The bin caught Richard in the shins. He tripped, crying out as he fell hard onto the wooden rafters. The iron poker clattered out of his hand, sliding across the floor.
“Run!” I screamed to Hannah.
We scrambled past him, practically throwing ourselves down the narrow attic stairs. I heard Richard roaring in anger above us as he struggled to untangle himself from the spilled books.
We hit the second floor and sprinted for the stairs.
“Mom, the drive!” Hannah yelled.
I patted my pocket. The USB drive was there. The brass key was clutched tightly in my fist.
We burst through the front door and out into the pouring rain. I unlocked the SUV with the fob and threw Hannah into the passenger seat. I slid behind the wheel, slammed the door, and locked it just as Richard burst out of the front door.
He ran toward the car, his face twisted in rage, slamming his fists against my driver’s side window.
“Open the door, Catherine!” he screamed, his voice muffled by the thick glass.
I threw the car into reverse, stomped on the gas, and the SUV fishtailed out of the driveway, leaving my husband standing in the rain.
I drove for twenty minutes until I was sure we weren't being followed. I pulled into a brightly lit 24-hour diner parking lot and put the car in park. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely grip the steering wheel.
“Are you okay?” I asked Hannah, reaching over to touch her face.
She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Where do we go now? We don’t know what bank the key goes to.”
I looked down at the tiny brass key in my hand.
It was old, tarnished along the edges. But etched into the metal were three tiny letters and a number.
FNB - 412.
First National Bank. Box 412.
“I know exactly where we go,” I said. “First National Bank in downtown Milwaukee. It’s the bank Mom used her entire life.”
I looked at the clock on the dashboard. 3:45 AM.
“Dad’s flight leaves at six,” Hannah said quietly. “If he gets on that plane, he takes all the paintings.”
“He won’t,” I said, pulling out my phone.
I dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years.
It rang three times before a groggy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Marcus,” I said.
Marcus Thorne was Richard’s oldest rival in the Chicago art scene, and a man Richard had ruthlessly driven out of business three years ago using underhanded tactics. Marcus now ran a small, investigative art appraisal blog that Richard openly mocked.
“Catherine Calloway?” Marcus asked, sounding awake now. “Is this a joke? It’s almost four in the morning.”
“It’s not a joke, Marcus. I have proof that Richard has been forging provenance records and smuggling stolen art out of the country.”
Silence on the other end.
“I need you to meet me at the First National Bank in Milwaukee at 8:00 AM when the doors open,” I said. “Bring a camera. Bring your lawyers. Bring the FBI art crimes division if you can. I’m giving you the exclusive story that will destroy Richard Calloway.”
Marcus let out a low whistle. “He’ll kill you, Catherine.”
“He can try,” I said.
May you like
I hung up, put the car in drive, and headed north toward Milwaukee. The sun was just beginning to rise over Lake Michigan, painting the sky in streaks of gray and gold.
It was time to take my mother’s name back.
