Chapter 8 - FIND THE LIE
Kamal caught my arm before I reached the door.
“No.”
I looked at his hand.
He released me.
Progress.
“Catherine wants me.”
“That is precisely why you are not going.”
“She has the painting.”
“She also has men downstairs.”
“And if we stay here?”
His jaw tightened.
No answer.
Leyla stepped forward.
“Catherine doesn’t want Isa dead.”
Kamal looked at his mother as though he did not particularly value her strategic advice yet.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Twenty-two years gives a person time to change.”
“It also gives you time to learn what doesn’t.”
Leyla looked at me.
“She needs you to decode the ledger.”
“Then I have leverage.”
Kamal hated that.
I could see it.
But he also knew I was right.
Helen moved toward the window.
“There are four men.”
“Probably more,” Kamal said.
I crossed my arms.
“So what do we do?”
His expression became calculating.
“We let Catherine believe she controls the meeting.”
Five minutes later, I went downstairs alone.
At least, that was what Catherine was supposed to believe.
Kamal’s people had already entered the building through the rear service entrance.
Selim had contacted federal investigators who had quietly been reviewing several disputed art transfers tied to Catherine’s foundation.
No dramatic army.
No convenient rescue.
Just enough pressure to keep everyone cautious.
Catherine stood beneath the building awning.
Snow collected on her camel coat.
She was beautiful in the severe way expensive sculptures were beautiful.
Cold.
Precise.
Intended to be looked at from a distance.
“Isa.”
“Catherine.”
Her smile widened.
“I always liked you.”
“That makes one of us.”
“You did once.”
“Before you photographed my bedroom.”
Her expression barely shifted.
“I did not take that photograph.”
That surprised me.
“You sent it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To frighten Kamal.”
I stared.
“Not me?”
“You were collateral.”
The casualness of the word made my skin crawl.
“But why Kamal?”
“Because men like Kamal become predictable when frightened.”
“Possessive?”
“Protective.”
She smiled faintly.
“Same cage, prettier label.”
I thought of Kamal catching himself every time he tried to decide for me.
“No,” I said. “Not always.”
Something changed in her eyes.
Interesting.
She wanted me to hate him.
Why?
“Give me the portrait.”
“No.”
“You need me.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I learned years ago that lies are most useful when surrounded by truth.”
That sounded like the entire week.
She turned the painting.
“I need the last page.”
“So decode it yourself.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Then Dad beat you.”
Her jaw tightened.
There.
Pride.
The weak spot.
“You think your father was clever.”
“He was.”
“He was afraid.”
“Those things can coexist.”
Catherine studied me.
“You sound like Eleanor.”
My mother.
I swallowed the reaction.
“You knew her.”
“She hated me.”
“Probably for good reason.”
“She thought Leyla deserved a sister.”
A strange answer.
“You were her sister.”
“Biologically.”
The bitterness surprised me.
Catherine wasn’t only a villain standing in the snow.
She was a woman who had spent her life watching Leyla receive the family legitimacy she believed belonged to her.
Different mothers.
Different marriages.
One daughter raised inside wealth.
One outside it.
It did not excuse her.
But it explained the wound.
“My father abandoned my mother,” Catherine said. “Then raised Leyla’s life from a distance as if she were precious.”
“So you punished Leyla.”
“I built something that belonged to me.”
“By laundering money through stolen art?”
“By making powerful men need me.”
There it was.
Not greed.
Control.
A person terrified of being disposable making herself indispensable.
“Then why the paintings?”
“Because Kamal’s father discovered too much.”
“You framed him.”
“I gave him a choice.”
“Destroy the ledger?”
“Yes.”
“And he refused.”
“He chose his wife.”
Her mouth tightened.
“People always chose Leyla.”
For the first time, I understood what she truly hated.
Not Kamal.
Not me.
The fact that after everything, Leyla was still loved.
Catherine thrust the portrait toward me.
“Decode it.”
“Here?”
“Now.”
I studied the painting.
The girl in red shoes.
Me.
Age four.
Dad had painted over the original data using a simple restoration ground.
I scraped one loose edge carefully with my fingernail.
Numbers appeared beneath.
Columns.
Transactions.
Names.
At the bottom, a row of apparently random words.
STAR.
CANDLE.
ANGEL.
BELL.
STOCKING.
My throat tightened.
Christmas objects.
Dad’s game.
Every December he hid paper ornaments around the house.
Each ornament contained a word.
One word was always false.
Find the lie.
“What do you see?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing.”
Her smile vanished.
“Don’t.”
I looked closer.
Star.
Candle.
Angel.
Bell.
Stocking.
Our game always used five objects.
Four pointed toward a number.
The false object pointed nowhere.
I remembered his rule.
The lie is the thing that doesn’t belong to the story.
I stared at the portrait.
Red shoes.
Christmas tree behind me.
Bell ornament.
Angel.
Star.
Stocking.
No candle.
Candle was the lie.
Candle corresponded to column four.
Fourth column.
I read downward.
Initials.
Dates.
Payments.
And one name.
MARIANNE WARD.
Helen’s dead sister.
Except not as a victim.
As a partner.
My heart stopped.
Catherine watched my face.
“You found it.”
I looked up.
The final page didn’t identify who betrayed Catherine.
It identified who helped her.
Helen’s sister Marianne.
But Marianne died nine years ago.
That meant the person using Marianne’s identity was not mocking Helen.
She was continuing Marianne’s role.
“Who is pretending to be Marianne?” I asked.
Catherine smiled.
“You already know.”
I thought of the woman I met at the gallery last Christmas.
Elegant.
Dark glasses.
Slight limp.
She had introduced herself as Helen’s sister.
But Helen’s half sister was Catherine.
Unless—
“You.”
Catherine smiled.
“I wanted to see whether Helen would recognize the name on the visitor log.”
“You used your dead accomplice’s name.”
“She was useful.”
“Until?”
“She became sentimental.”
“What happened to her?”
For the first time, Catherine’s expression hardened completely.
“She tried to give the ledger back.”
My stomach turned.
“Her car accident.”
Catherine said nothing.
That silence was enough.
“Did you kill her?”
“I did not touch her car.”
Not an answer.
Which meant someone had.
Maybe on her order.
Maybe not.
Catherine took one step closer.
“Read me the last entry.”
“No.”
Her face changed.
Kamal appeared behind me.
Not rushing.
Not shouting.
Just walking from the building entrance.
Catherine saw him.
“Predictable.”
Kamal stopped several feet away.
“You wanted me frightened.”
“I wanted you emotional.”
“You sent Isa the necklace.”
“Yes.”
“My mother’s pearls.”
“Replicas.”
That surprised him.
“What?”
“The originals were sold years ago.”
Leyla appeared behind him.
Catherine’s confidence fractured.
Just for a second.
“Hello, Catherine.”
The sisters faced one another across falling snow.
Catherine’s voice went quiet.
“You should have stayed gone.”
“So should you.”
Catherine looked at the portrait.
Then at me.
“The final name.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
“Do you know what that ledger will do if released?”
“Yes.”
“It will destroy people who had nothing to do with us.”
“Then we don’t publish it.”
She blinked.
I continued.
“We give the evidence to investigators. We separate crimes from gossip. We don’t burn everyone just because you built your life around fire.”
Catherine laughed once.
“You sound very sure.”
“I’m sure about one thing.”
“What?”
“You spent twenty-two years controlling everyone because you were terrified no one would choose you willingly.”
That hit.
Hard.
Her face cracked.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for me to glimpse a lonely woman beneath the armor.
Then she reached into her coat.
Kamal moved.
So did the federal agents across the street.
But Catherine did not pull a weapon.
She pulled out a bracelet.
Gold.
Five tiny pomegranate charms.
Leyla gasped.
“My mother’s.”
Catherine stared at her.
“Our mother’s.”
Leyla’s face changed.
Catherine threw the bracelet into the snow.
“That was all she left me.”
For one moment, no one moved.
Then Catherine looked at me.
“I did not send the first photograph.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“The apartment photograph.”
“You admitted sending it.”
“I sent it after I received it.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
My heart began pounding.
Kamal’s face sharpened.
“If Catherine didn’t take it—”
Someone else had been watching me first.
Someone who knew about the necklace.
Someone who knew Catherine would use it.
Someone manipulating all of us.
Then Leyla whispered, “The photograph.”
“What?”
She took it from my coat pocket.
MAKE HER WEAR MY GIFT.
She stared at the handwriting.
“I know this hand.”
Kamal went still.
“Whose?”
Leyla looked at him.
May you like
Tears filled her eyes.
“Your father’s.”
