Page 113 of Brutal Truths

“Okay.” I close my eyes, letting my thoughts go back to the night—the one that has never truly left me.

Whenever I’m in my gallery, everything else seems to drift away. The parts of the world I can’t quite hold onto… they’re quiet here. That’s why I spend so much time inside.

Within these walls, it’s just me and my art. Nothing else demands my attention. Nothing slips.

This is the legacy of my life’s work.

Each painting carries a story. How it found its way here, why it belongs. Some of those stories feel just out of reach, like I should remember but can’t quite grasp the details. Others… I remember well.

If my granddaughter knew the truth behind what hangs on these walls, she would look at me differently. That’s why Rico and I agreed she should stay in Hermosa Islas with her adopted family. It was safer. For her. For us. We had to keep some things hidden, otherwise, everything would have unraveled.

That’s the price one must pay when living a life where danger lurks around every corner.

I am a notorious art thief—or I used to be.

No one has ever proven that. No one ever will.

Everything displayed in here has been bought and paid for—on paper, at least. A few simply came into my possession… earlier than they should have. I was careful. Kept my collection private for years.

It wasn’t until my granddaughter persuaded me to allow her new sister-in-law, Larkin, a glimpse inside that I invited someone to admire my collection.

A few pieces had to be removed. Their lingering status as stolen art forced my hand. Removing them from those lists is never simple. It’s a lengthy process. It demands patience, a substantial amount of money, and the skill of persuasion for those who need urging.

The gallery is my sanctuary. When I’m alone, I prefer the dark. The only light comes from the special lamps above each piece, casting a glow to reveal what others might miss. Imperfections. Truths. The best way to appreciate the authentic from the counterfeit.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here. I must have dozed off. Nothing new. I do it all the time.

The blanket shifts as I pull it to cover my legs, and something feels… off.

I’m not alone.

There’s a man standing on the other side of the room. His back is to me. He’s dressed entirely in black. A mask discarded on the floor beside him. It’s next to a tool bag he’s rifling through with precise focus.

Another man joins him moments later. Older. There is something familiar in their movements, something shared. I can’t place it, but I know it matters.

I stay still. They haven’t noticed me, and I don’t want them to.

“We don’t need to take all of them, just enough to convince the coppers that this was a robbery gone wrong,” the older one says. “Need a hand with that?”

“Probably. I think I’ve removed all the anchors.” The younger one straightens and turns to the side. “Grab that side and be careful. This one’s worth more than your car.”

“My car?” The older man steps back, frowning as he studies it. “You’re joking. Looks like something your sister’s kid painted.”

The younger man lets out a quiet laugh. “It’s a Picasso, Uncle Drake. And people pay millions to own one of his paintings.”

“I don’t get it.” Drake shakes his head, unconvinced, then retakes his place next to the Picasso. Together, they lift the frame.

I watch them, confused for a moment.

The Picasso. A painting I pilfered from a wealthy collector, after he refused to sell it to me, is now carefully being deposited into a wooden box.

Why take that one?

“You finish up here. I need to make this look like Trent’s finally lost patience with Rico and handled it himself. Load that into the lift and take it down to the van. When you’re back, we’ll smash a few things and set the fires. You did your thing, right?”

“Did that first.” The young one secures the wooden lid with gentle taps of the hammer. “Isabel won’t wake up until we’re long gone. If she wakes at all.”

My hand clamps over my mouth before any sound sneaks out.