Chapter 1

Chloe Hart's head snapped up as if she hadn't heard me correctly. "Ms. Rivera, what did you say?"

"I said these paintings cannot be sold."

The smile vanished from her face. "On what grounds?"

I looked up at Chloe. Spread across my desk were high-resolution photographs of her mother's paintings.

Twelve in total. Every single one had once hung in our leaky shed.

I zoomed in on the photograph of the back of Madonna of the Red Rock.

"Your mother has always claimed she painted this in her professional studio in Washington, D.C. Then explain why the back of the canvas is patched with old clothing."

Chloe frowned. "An artist can use whatever materials she wants."

"What about the old church wax? The cheap resin? And this red clay pigment? Over twenty years ago, the only place that sold it was a general store in a desert town."

I zoomed in further. Beneath the brown overpainting, faint black strokes showed through, spelling what looked like Rivera.

Rivera was Grandma's surname, the one I'd known my whole life. The name the Harts had buried under paint for twenty years.

I pointed at the screen, jaw clenched. "Care to explain this?"

Chloe stared for a few seconds, then scoffed. "That's just an illegible smudge. Probably a mark left by whoever sold the canvas."

I pushed the file back toward her. "Until this is all sorted out, the application is denied."

Chloe rose to her feet. "Ms. Rivera, let me remind you of my mother's credentials. Evelyn Hart. Collections in the world's top museums. The highest art awards. A charitable foundation. International exhibitions. Authenticated by dozens of experts."

Her voice kept rising. "The entire world accepts these paintings as my mother's work. Who are you to say there's a problem?"

She slammed her palm on the desk and shouted, "Do you have any idea how big this deal is? $150 million is only the opening estimate. These paintings are headed for museums around the world. Can you cover that kind of loss?"

I stared her down, fury surging in my chest. "This isn't a place where whoever shouts loudest wins. If you can't explain where these paintings came from, forget $150 million. Even if they were worth $1.5 billion, not one of them is getting past my desk!"

After a few seconds, she clenched her fists and dropped her voice to a near-whisper. "Rivera, think very carefully about who you're crossing. Nobody gets to stand in the Harts' way. You're going to regret this."

She snatched up the file and stalked out in her high heels.

The door slammed shut behind her.

I stared at her retreating figure and suddenly remembered the morning I found Grandma.

She was kneeling at the gallery entrance, her pant legs frozen to the steps. I tried to lift her three times and couldn't.

The fabric finally tore, but she still didn't wake up.

And just on the other side of the glass, her Madonna of the Red Rock hung beneath a heating vent.

For twenty years, I had never forgotten that image. Not for a single second.

Grandma. This time, I'm going to make them write your name back where it belongs. Every last letter.