Page 137 of Brutal Truths

I join her, ready to soak it all in. She’s been like this all week, drifting between then and now. She’s clinging to memories of her past as her present life slips away.

I’ve learned not to interrupt. Not to pull her back when she wanders. It only leaves her unsettled. So, I stay where her mind is, meeting her in whatever version of the moment she’s in. I can’t prove if her tales are true or mixed, and I’ve decided to let it go. What’s done is done. No good can come from digging up the past. Not for us.

“How long have you had this Grimshaw?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

She reaches over and lays her frail hand on my arm. “I bought this one not long after Rico and I married. One of his clients was selling it, and I had to have it.” Her eyes linger on the painting. “It’s beautiful, don’t you agree?”

“It is.” I watch her instead of the art, holding onto this version of her while it’s still here. She’ll tell me more about it when she’s ready.

“I offered them fair value for it. The husband laughed in my face, so I walked away.” Her voice shifts, a mischievous tone slips through. “That night, I went back and replaced it with the counterfeit one I’d been working on.”

I stay quiet. Letting her finish. This isn’t the first time she’s mentioned counterfeits.

“It took them two years to realize,” she continues. “They had it appraised for auction and were told it was an extraordinarily convincing forgery. No one could explain how it happened. They never suspected me.”

“Seriously?” I glance over, unable to hide the curiosity in my voice.

Her smile curves, like she’s been waiting for that reaction. “They even tried to sell me the counterfeit at the price I’d originally offered.”

My jaw drops. “What did you tell them?”

Each time I hear these stories, it blows my mind to think that my sweet, proper grandmother was once a notorious art thief.

Her smile, full of unspoken understanding, meets my gaze with a knowing grin.

“What did you tell them?”

“To go to hell,” she laughs. “I came across the original during a trip to Morocco. An estate sale of a very wealthy North Sea oil family. Bought it on sight and had it shipped to me.” A silent, knowing look passes between us as our smiles meet. “Once everything was properly documented, I hung it in my gallery and invited the couple over to come and admire the real thing.”

“I thought you didn’t let others see your collection.” That’s what she’d always told me. That it was too valuable, too tempting. Ironic, considering she never hesitated when something caught her eye.

She rises slowly and steps closer to the painting, studying it like it holds something only she can see. “Sometimes it was worth the risk,” she says quietly. “Just to watch their smug faces change.”

When she looks back, there’s a knowing expression in her eyes. “They understood soon enough. Realizing their mistake was turning down my first offer. A mistake they never made again.”

Taking a few steps to her left, she runs her fingers along the frame’s edge. “When I offered to purchase this one several years later, they accepted it immediately and even agreed to sell my partner three others at a more than friendly price.”

“You had a partner?” This is the first time she’s brought it up, even though I already know who he was. I want to hear her admit it. “Who?”

Shaking her head, a soft tsks follows. “He was a silent partner. I’ll never tell, that was our agreement.”

Before I can press further, movement at the doorway pulls my attention.

Silas steps just inside with Aiden beside him.

“May I admire your collection, Alma?”

Grams waves them both in, acting as if seeing Silas here is normal. “Yes, of course. I was just sharing with my granddaughter the story of how a few of these pieces joined my collection.”

Silas’s gaze drifts across the room before settling on a painting. “A collection this substantial must come with a story or two. The Botticelli, for instance… would you mind sharing how you got this one with me?”

Grams folds her arms, unimpressed. “Don’t be a pompous arse, Silas. You know very well that your mother sold me that painting.”

She lifts her chin, daring him to argue. “And no, I’m not interested in selling it back. When I’m gone, if you’re lucky, Isabel might consider it. But it’ll cost you—top dollar, plus a finder’s fee.”

“Deal.” His smile is easy, and when he looks at me, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Your grandmother is one hell of a negotiator.”

Stepping closer, he lowers his voice. “I wanted to say goodbye… and offer my condolences again. I hear you’re returning to Oxford tomorrow. Glad to see they allowed you to finish the year without holding your unfortunate absence against you.”