Chapter 28

Lane Peters. My Lane Peters?

I focused on the details of Becca’s face as I took in her accusation, from the firm set of her jaw, visible above the scarf that had fallen, up to the anger in her eyes.

She was dead serious. As I watched her breath turn to mist in the frigid air, I knew she was telling the truth. Her truth. I didn’t believe for a single moment that Lane was a murderer, but that the manuscript was meant to tell his story, as Becca understood it.

I understood something too. It was the story Lane had hinted at since I’d known him. The reason he quit his old life.

Like an ostrich sticking its head into the sand, I had assumed the tragedy that made Lane quit his old life was something like nearly getting caught and a friend of his winding up in jail. But being involved in a murder? I hadn’t pressed for details when he told me about it two summers ago when we first met. The memory had still seemed too raw.

I groaned. “The name. Tristan Rubens. The name of a Knight of the Round Table and a Baroque painter. Just like Lane’s given name, Lancelot Caravaggio.”

“Rick was giving you a big hint.”

And I’d missed it. I’d let my ego take over, wanting to believe Rick was enlisting my help as a historian who’d found other lost treasures.

There was no question. Becca wasn’t lying about that. Tristan was meant to be Lane.

“There’s no way Lane Peters is a killer,” I said. “That’s more ridiculous than a ghost killing anyone.”

“I was so sure he’d confess everything to you after he saw the writing on the wall that exposed what he’d done. I guess he’s not sticking around after all. No matter. The actions of a thief might not merit an international man-hunt, but a murderer? His time is coming.” She smiled maliciously.

“Lane has told me all about his past,” I said as carefully as I could. Now that I knew this was all a trap, I was aware she might be recording the conversation.

“But not what happened to my father. You must have shown him the pages! I was so angry he stood you up that night at the restaurant. I’d planned the timing so carefully! Rick’s demand for an answer that night, and making sure the package wouldn’t arrive until the end of the day, so you’d be sure to talk it over with your boyfriend. You showed him the pages. That’s why he killed Rick—”

“He didn’t kill Rick. He didn’t kill anyone. Lane never saw the chapters from The Glass Thief.”

“You’re lying,” she said through gritted teeth “I waited for as long as I could for Lane to show up at the restaurant that night. I’d so wanted to see his reaction when he realized he was about to be discovered. It was a risk, of course, that he’d disappear and the authorities wouldn’t catch him. But I didn’t think he would. Because of you. Either way, I’d get to see him destroy himself. Give up his freedom, or give up the love of his life. Probably both, since the novel was going to be a sensation. True crime novels are all the rage. Rick’s book was going to be huge. Everyone was going to learn about Lancelot Caravaggio Peters, the murderer who ruined my life. And I’d get to watch his downfall from the start. But because of stupid Wesley…” she trailed off.

“What does Wesley have to do with this?”

She glared at me. “He’s more polite than I thought. He didn’t want to take credit for finding the letter in my book that afternoon, and didn’t want us to linger any longer at the table that night. He said we’d be rude, since so many people were waiting for a table.”

“The letter?” I repeated. No…

More pieces clicked into place. The timing was even more specific than I thought. Becca and Wesley “found” the letter the same day Rick Coronado’s first manuscript pages arrived. That was the plausible reason for Becca to be at the restaurant when she thought Lane and I would both see the opening of Rick’s novel.

Becca had orchestrated the whole set-up perfectly. But perfectly on paper doesn’t translate to real life. She could fake a historical letter and have a friend “accidentally” find it that afternoon where she’d left it in plain sight, but she couldn’t control the people around her as much as she’d anticipated when she dreamed up her revenge. Wesley had taken the bait of the letter, but he was a decent guy who acted respectfully at the Tandoori Palace. And Lane was supposed to meet me at the restaurant that night, but had canceled because, as I later learned, he was busy filling out paperwork to buy the house.

It was my own biases that had fooled me. In a highly publicized case, I’d discovered a treasure my great grand uncle Anand had saved here in San Francisco, shortly after the Great Earthquake of 1906. The discovery involved the sunken ships underneath San Francisco. I was primed to respond to a similar discovery. A discovery that Becca and Wesley brought me, leading me to spend more time with them.

Becca had been unable to get close enough to me at a large university, so she faked and planted a historical document in the book Wesley found. She was smart and knew finding it herself would have been too obvious. She didn’t want to show her hand. She needed a fellow student to find it. Her family had money, so she could have easily created a document that looked superficially aged. I should have seen it myself, only she knew exactly how to play on my weaknesses.

“You can’t expect to control people like this,” I said, hoping my voice wasn’t shaking.

Becca shook her head sadly. She’d experienced far more than she should have for a twenty-year-old. “Both of us are victims. I see that now. I’m sorry now that I had to bring you into this, but it was the only way.”

“How did you find Lane?” I asked. I could have feigned ignorance, but I wanted answers. I knew in my heart that Lane was Tristan Rubens. I didn’t believe the fictional facts, but I knew there were many grains of truth in this story. I needed answers.

“The most horrible thing about it is why I recognized him.” Becca laughed and a tear escaped and rolled down her pale cheek. “The man I thought was my father’s old friend from university. The man who was really Lancelot Caravaggio Peters. I should have known he was younger than my father, but when I was thirteen, adults simply seemed like adults. When I saw them talking, I didn’t know what they were planning, but I thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. I had the biggest crush on him. That’s why I knew every aspect of his face. That’s why I was able to recognize him when his photo was posted by the press the summer before last, even though he’d done something different to himself—or rather, I now know that he was in disguise back when I first saw him. He’s hot, so there was a meme about him for a heartbeat. Everyone else forgot about him a couple of days later when a football player proposed to his girlfriend on live television. Except me.”

“He didn’t kill your father, Becca.”

“He might be a changed man since you’ve known him. But that doesn’t forgive what he did. He took my father away from me. He ruined my life.”

The look of rage and indignation on my own face must have been apparent even from yards away, because Sébastien, who’d been keeping his distance, walked directly toward us. When he was a few feet away, his shoe hit a slippery piece of ice. He faltered and stumbled.

“Seb—”

“Mesdemoiselles!” He caught our arms and righted himself. “Je suis desolé.”

“Are you all right?” I asked in English.

He gave me a sharp look before turning a kindly one toward Becca. “Je ne comprends pas.”

Becca answered in French. I didn’t catch most of what they said, since I spoke probably twenty words of French at most, but it was obvious she was concerned for the frail elderly man who’d stumbled. What was he up to?

Becca’s face turned cold when she glanced my way. She switched to English. “This gentleman needs assistance getting back to the metro safely. Since you and I are done, and the remaining members of my family need me, I’m going to escort him. Don’t worry. I won’t ever take another of your classes. Don’t you dare give me a failing grade as retaliation for telling the truth, though.”

“Your faked historical document will do that all on your own.”

She gave me a saccharine smile. “An irrelevant old letter that didn’t make it into my final paper, which you’d know if you were doing your job and grading papers instead of traipsing around the world. I’m sorry my new friend here doesn’t speak any English to witness your defeat. Even though Rick won’t be here to see his manuscript published, I’ll make sure a ghostwriter finishes it. I’ll have to wait a little longer to see justice, but I’ve already waited for seven years.”

“Wait,” I said. “Who else did you tell? And why did you try to scare me off?” She had to have been involved with the threatening note or its disappearance.

She linked her arm through the crook of Sébastien’s elbow. “Goodbye, Dr. Jones. I’ll be seeing you again across a courtroom. If you decide to stick with him, that is. I won’t blame you if you don’t.”

Sébastien shook my hand as he murmured his thanks in French. More importantly, as he did so he used sleight-of-hand to slip a note into my gloved hand.