Chapter 2: The Billionaire's Collection

POV: FIRST PERSON - ADRIAN KINGSLEY

The report reached my office before the foundation opened. 

Damien Vale placed a folder on my desk and told me the restoration specialist had found a mark beneath the paint on the Bell painting. He believed it might be a hidden signature.

I opened the folder. The photograph showed a small mark near the lower corner, and the name on the report caught my attention: Lucas Reed.

His mother, Eleanor Reed, had appeared in my father's old records. Her name was linked to paintings that had changed hands through private sales. I had been told the matter was settled, but no one had ever explained what had happened to her.

“Is Lucas her son?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Who approved the purchase?”

“The painting came through a well-known dealer in Europe. The papers looked correct, and the foundation's checks were completed before the sale. Final approval came through the executive office.”

“I want the full file. Every paper and every name connected to the sale. Nothing is to be removed or changed.”

Damien nodded. “I'll have it secured.”

“Bring Lucas Reed here. I want to hear what he found.”

Lucas arrived less than an hour later with a folder and a tablet. He sat across from me without showing any sign of fear. His calm manner was not what I had expected from a young man who had come to question one of the foundation's purchases.

“Show me what you found,” I said.

He turned his tablet towards me and showed me the lower corner of the painting. The top layer had begun to crack, while the paint beneath it looked older.

“Someone covered part of the original surface,” he explained. “The cracks don't match the layer beneath. It looks as if someone tried to hide something.”

He placed the hidden mark beside examples of his mother's signature. The shapes were close.

“I can't say the whole painting is hers,” he said. “An independent expert must check that. But the signature is close enough to need a proper examination.”

I studied the pictures again. Lucas knew his work, and he was careful not to claim more than he could prove. I could not dismiss him as someone chasing money.

“Why do you believe the painting belongs to your mother?”

“Because the mark matches her signature, but the painting is listed under another artist's name. If she made it, someone changed its history. I want to know who did that.”

“You are saying the foundation may be holding stolen work.”

“I'm asking you to prove it isn't. The records should show where it came from and who owned it before you bought it.”

I studied the photographs again, but my attention kept returning to Lucas. He was confident without being careless, and he had the unusual habit of looking directly at me even when he disagreed with what I said. Most people became careful around me, but Lucas seemed more interested in making sure I understood him.

When he noticed me looking, he leaned back. “Are you examining the photographs, or are you staring at me?”

“I can do both.”

“Then I hope the photographs are getting enough attention.”

I almost smiled. “The painting will be taken off display until an independent expert has examined it.”

His face tightened. “Why take it down now? People might ask what you're trying to hide.”

“To protect it while we check its history,” I replied.

“Then let me see the full purchase and repair records. I want the names of the people who handled it and the papers they used to sell it.”

“I won't release private records before they have been checked.”

“You say you want the truth, but you won't let me see the papers that might prove it.”

“And I said this is my mother's work. I won't stand by while people hide it again.”

“I'll be in touch,” I said.

“I'll keep looking with or without your help.”

I turned to Damien after Lucas left. “Why does Eleanor Reed appear in my father's old records?”

“There were disputes involving artists and collectors. I don't remember the details.”

“You worked with those records.”

“I worked with the acquisitions office. That doesn't mean I remember every case.”

His answer did not satisfy me. I looked down at the photograph again, then asked the question that had been troubling me since I saw Eleanor's name: “Who told you Eleanor Reed was dead?”

Damien's eyes moved to the image. He paused before answering.

“Your father's office confirmed it,” he said. “The acquisitions department was told she had died and that the matter was closed.”

I gripped the edge of my desk. My father had been dead for years, yet his choices still reached into my life. I had spent years trying to understand the wrong things he had done. Now I was hearing that his office had marked a woman as dead and closed her file.

“Was there a death certificate?” I asked. “A doctor's report? Anything official?”

“I don't remember seeing one.”

“You were told she was dead, but you don't remember seeing proof?”

“I can search the records.”

I stood and walked to the window, trying to keep my anger under control. If Eleanor had died, there should have been proof. If there was none, then someone had decided that a message from my father's office was enough to end the matter. I thought of Lucas leaving with his mother's name in his hands, still fighting for an answer.

“Find the first message that reported her death,” I said. “I want the name of the person who sent it, who received it, and who ordered the file closed. Bring me the original papers, not a summary.”

Damien picked up the folder. Before he reached the door, I stopped him.

“If anyone has changed those records, I want to know before they have time to hide anything else.”

He left without answering. I looked again at the hidden mark in the photograph, feeling a growing fear that my family had buried something far worse than a disputed painting.

Lucas had come looking for the truth about his mother, and now, I had to ask whether the woman he had spent years mourning had ever been dead at all.