Chapter 3 - THE RESTORER THEY FRAMED
By morning, my photograph was circulating online.
ART RESTORER QUESTIONED IN MISSING MASTERPIECE CASE.
The headline was misleading.
No detective had questioned me.
No warrant had been issued.
But someone had leaked my name, my studio address, and a photograph of me leaving Cipriani with Gabriel.
The comments were vicious.
People called me a thief.
A gold digger.
A criminal's girlfriend.
I sat at Gabriel's kitchen table and watched strangers invent a life for me.
Naomi took my phone.
“Stop reading.”
“I need to know what they're saying.”
“You need to know what the police are actually investigating.”
She called a detective she knew professionally and arranged for me to give a voluntary statement with counsel present.
I agreed.
If Spencer wanted to frame me, hiding would only help him.
At the station, Detective Mara Ellison studied me across a metal desk.
She was in her forties, with sharp eyes and an exhausted expression.
“Ms. Brooks, did you remove a painting from the Costa collection?”
“No.”
“Did you know it was missing?”
“Not until last night.”
“Did you have access?”
“Yes. Six months ago, when I restored it.”
She nodded.
“Can you describe the restoration?”
I leaned forward.
Finally, a question I understood.
“The canvas had been relined sometime in the 1970s. The varnish was uneven. There was a repaired tear near the subject's left shoulder.”
“Anything unusual?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
Naomi glanced at me.
I continued.
“The stretcher bars were newer than the canvas. Someone had replaced them but reused the original frame.”
Detective Ellison made a note.
“Why is that significant?”
“Because the frame was unusually deep. There was empty space behind the lining.”
She looked up.
“Did you inspect it?”
“No. The restoration agreement didn't authorize structural disassembly.”
After the interview, Naomi and I returned to the townhouse.
Gabriel was waiting.
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I studied him.
“Where's the painting?”
His expression changed.
“I don't know.”
“You owned it.”
“Yes.”
“And someone stole it?”
“Yes.”
“From your house?”
“From a storage facility.”
I stared.
“Who had access?”
“Several people.”
“Names.”
He looked at Mateo.
Mateo handed me a list.
Spencer Harrington was on it.
I looked up.
“Why did Spencer have access to your storage facility?”
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
“Because he was negotiating an investment partnership with one of my companies.”
I felt sick.
“You knew Spencer?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Almost two years.”
I stepped backward.
“You knew the man I was dating.”
Gabriel nodded.
“And you never warned me?”
“I didn't know he was dating you until recently.”
“How recently?”
He hesitated.
“Three weeks.”
I stared.
“Three weeks.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided to investigate him instead of telling me?”
“I needed evidence.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You sound exactly like every man who thinks he gets to decide what I can handle.”
Gabriel lowered his eyes.
“You're right.”
That afternoon, I returned to my Chelsea studio with Naomi and a police escort.
The door had been forced.
My filing cabinets were open.
Several restoration photographs were missing.
My computer was gone.
Someone had searched everything.
I stood in the middle of the room.
My life's work surrounded me.
Canvases.
Brushes.
Solvents.
Half-finished commissions.
And suddenly it all felt fragile.
Then I noticed something.
A small envelope beneath my workbench.
It had slipped between two wooden supports.
I picked it up.
Inside was a photograph I'd taken during the Costa restoration.
The back of the painting.
The original frame.
And a tiny handwritten note.
The second signature is not on the canvas.
I stared.
I hadn't written it.
May you like
But I recognized the handwriting.
My mother's.
