Chapter 6 - The Man Who Knew My Father's Name|
At ten-thirty that night, I sat in the back of a black SUV beside Harold Bennett.
Alessandro had arranged for a security team to accompany us to the warehouse.
He'd also contacted his attorney, who was coordinating with investigators to preserve the artwork and the records connected to its movement.
I had expected Alessandro to tell me to go home.
Instead, he'd asked whether I was willing to help identify the original frame.
I agreed.
Not because I wanted excitement.
Not because I wanted to impress a wealthy man.
But because my mother's name had been used in a fraudulent transaction.
And because Sofia Romano had hidden something for the daughter she'd lost.
I wanted to make sure that message survived.
Harold sat beside me, staring at his folded hands.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
He gave a weak smile.
"I've had better evenings."
I looked at him.
"Camille was cruel to you."
He sighed.
"People like her often mistake kindness for weakness."
I thought about the way she'd called me an uneducated little maid.
"Yes."
Harold looked toward me.
"Your mother taught you well."
I smiled faintly.
"She taught me everything I know."
"No."
He shook his head.
"She taught you how to look carefully. But you decided to speak when staying silent would have been easier."
I looked out the window.
The city lights moved past us.
For years, I'd been embarrassed when people asked why I hadn't gone to college.
The truth was simple.
My father had suffered a stroke when I was nineteen.
My mother needed help with the shop.
I worked there full-time while taking night classes.
Then medical bills arrived.
The classes stopped.
The work didn't.
Eventually, I moved to Chicago because Alessandro's estate offered a salary large enough to help my parents keep their business.
I wasn't ashamed of working.
But sometimes, surrounded by wealthy people who treated education like proof of human worth, I'd felt smaller than I should have.
Tonight, I finally understood that knowing something valuable didn't require somebody else's permission.
The SUV slowed.
Daniel spoke from the front seat.
"We're here."
The warehouse stood behind a tall metal fence.
Security lights illuminated rows of loading doors.
A sign read NORTH SHORE FINE ART STORAGE.
Alessandro's vehicle arrived behind ours.
He stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt.
His dark tattoos were visible beneath the rolled sleeves.
He looked toward Daniel.
"Status?"
"Management has been notified. Investigators are on the way. The painting is on hold pending verification."
Alessandro nodded.
"Good."
We entered through the main office.
A nervous manager led us toward a secured storage room.
But when he opened the door, my stomach dropped.
The room was empty.
Except for a wooden shipping crate.
Its lid had already been removed.
Inside was an empty frame.
No painting.
No canvas.
Just a gold reproduction frame packed in protective foam.
Alessandro looked toward the manager.
"Where is the original?"
The man swallowed.
"I don't know, sir."
Daniel stepped forward.
"Who accessed this room?"
The manager began searching his tablet.
Then stopped.
His face went pale.
"An authorized courier."
"Name?"
He hesitated.
"Thomas Dawson."
My blood turned cold.
Dawson.
My father's name was Thomas Dawson.
I stared at the manager.
"What?"
He looked confused.
"Is something wrong?"
I swallowed.
"My father is in Milwaukee recovering from a stroke."
Alessandro turned toward me.
"Claire?"
I shook my head.
"He hasn't worked outside our shop in six years."
Daniel immediately asked for the courier identification.
The manager displayed a scanned driver's license.
The photograph showed a man in his sixties.
Gray hair.
Blue eyes.
A familiar smile.
My father.
I covered my mouth.
"That's him."
Harold stared at the screen.
Alessandro's expression hardened.
"Was he physically here?"
The manager checked the record.
"Someone presented this identification, but the camera at the loading dock wasn't working."
Daniel looked toward Alessandro.
"Another identity theft."
I felt sick.
First my mother.
Now my father.
Camille wasn't just trying to steal a painting.
She was constructing a story in which my entire family would appear responsible.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I hesitated.
Alessandro noticed.
"Don't answer unless you want to."
But something told me I needed to.
I pressed the button.
"Hello?"
A man spoke.
His voice was low.
Smooth.
Unfamiliar.
"Claire Dawson."
My skin prickled.
"Who is this?"
"Someone who knows your family."
I looked toward Alessandro.
He immediately moved closer.
The man continued.
"Your mother should have stayed in Milwaukee."
My heart began pounding.
"What do you want?"
"Tell Romano to stop looking for the painting."
"Where is it?"
A quiet laugh.
"You're cleverer than Camille said."
I stared at the phone.
The man continued.
"But clever girls sometimes forget that their parents are getting older."
My blood ran cold.
"Don't you dare threaten them."
Silence.
Then he whispered, "Ask your father what happened at the Milwaukee framing shop on November seventeenth, nineteen ninety-eight."
The call ended.
I stood motionless.
Alessandro looked at me.
"What did he say?"
I repeated the date.
Harold made a small sound.
I turned toward him.
"Mr. Bennett?"
His expression had changed.
He looked frightened.
"November seventeenth?"
I nodded.
May you like
He covered his mouth.
"That was the day Sofia's daughter disappeared."
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