Chapter 5 - The Name In My Mother's Letter

POV: FIRST PERSON - LUCAS REED

I woke with the memory of Adrian's mouth still fresh in my mind, which was irritating enough before I remembered the car that had followed me the night before. 

I had reached home safely, but I had checked the lock twice and kept my phone beside me until morning.

The kiss had been brief, but it had been real. What bothered me most was that I was still thinking about it when I had much more important things to worry about. 

Adrian Kingsley owned the painting that carried my mother's hidden signature. His family name appeared in records connected to her past, and someone had threatened me for asking questions. A kiss changed none of those facts.

I tried to focus on the restoration work waiting in my studio, but I kept making small mistakes. 

Finally, I decided to search my mother's belongings again. Her old exhibition catalogues were stacked inside a wooden case. As I lifted them out, a folded piece of paper slipped from a catalogue from an exhibition held shortly before her career collapsed.

I knew the handwriting before I opened it. It was my mother's.

The paper had turned yellow, and one corner was stained with water. I unfolded it carefully. The letter was addressed to no one, and there was no date at the top, but the words inside made my hands tighten.

Eleanor had written about a meeting with Richard Kingsley.

She said he had promised to help settle a dispute involving several paintings. She believed the ownership records had been changed without her permission, and she wanted the original documents returned before the works were sold again, and Richard had assured her the matter could be handled quietly.

I read that part twice.

My mother had met Richard to discuss the paintings and trusted him enough to believe he could help. Yet the final lines showed that her trust had not lasted. 

She wrote that someone had altered the records again. Richard had stopped answering her questions, and the people who once promised to help were now avoiding her. She feared the dispute was bigger than one collector and warned herself not to sign anything else without seeing the original papers.

The catalogue gave me a rough date. The letter had been written shortly before the accusations that ruined her career.

If Richard had been involved in discussions about the disputed paintings, then the Kingsley connection was older and more direct than I had thought. It did not prove he had stolen anything, but it gave me a reason to look more closely at his role.

I called Evelyn Hart.

She answered after the third ring. “Lucas? Is everything all right?”

“I found a letter from my mother. It mentions Richard Kingsley. Do you remember him attending her exhibitions?”

There was a pause. “Yes. I remember him.”

“What was he doing there?”

“He was a collector, and he had an interest in her work. Your mother once believed he could help her settle a dispute with a private collector.”

“Did he help?”

“Not in the end.” Evelyn's voice grew quieter. “At first, they seemed to get along. Then something changed. Your mother became angry whenever his name came up. She said he had promised to help, but later he stopped returning her calls.”

“Did she ever say what the dispute was about?”

“She mentioned ownership papers and paintings that had been moved without her agreement. I didn't know the full details. She was careful about what she told people.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“I didn't know how much you remembered, and I didn't want to give you half a story. I should have said something when you started asking about the paintings. I'm sorry.”

I accepted her apology, though it did not make the missing years easier to understand. We agreed to speak again after I had checked the letter more carefully.

When the call ended, I considered contacting Adrian. He might know what his father had been doing, or he might know nothing at all. Either way, I was not ready to place another piece of my mother's history in his hands without understanding it myself.

My phone lit up.

Adrian Kingsley: Are you safe?

I stared at the message. I wondered whether he was asking because he cared, because of the threat, or because he wanted to know what I was doing. The kiss made the question harder to dismiss, but it did not make me trust him.

Me: I'm capable of looking after myself.

His response did not come.

I returned to the letter and examined the water damage. Most of the final paragraph was clear, but one name had been ruined. I could make out a capital D, followed by two faint letters. The rest had blurred into the stain.

The sentence around it mentioned a private meeting Richard had arranged with one of his business associates. My mother had written that she needed to speak to this person before the next transfer took place.

I checked both sides of the paper, then held it beneath my desk lamp. There was no hidden writing, only the damaged name and a reference to the meeting.

Until then, I had thought I was following the history of one painting. The letter suggested my mother had been trying to stop something much larger, and Richard Kingsley had been close enough to know about it.

I placed the letter inside a clear protective sleeve and wrote down everything I could read. A paper specialist might be able to examine the damaged section, but I would not let anyone take the original out of my sight.

The name was incomplete, yet it was the first clear sign that Richard had not been dealing with my mother alone. Someone whose name began with D had been part of the meeting, and my mother had been afraid enough to record it.