Chapter 30

I spun around and faced my attacker, who wasn’t my attacker at all. Just the way Gabriela had been so wrong in a scene of Empire of Glass.

“My savior,” I said, then burst out laughing.

Lane sniffed my breath. “You’re drunk.”

I held up my index finger and thumb with a small space between them. “Just a little.”

“That,” Lane Peters said, “was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever known you to do.” He pulled me back, away from the door that had been forced. “At least you have your purse with you. Stay here while I check inside.”

“It’s not a purse,” I mumbled to the empty hallway. “It’s a messenger bag.”

He was back minutes later, shaking his head. “Whoever was here is gone.” He crouched down and examined the door more closely. “Sloppy break-in. Not professional.”

“Should I be relieved?”

“Not yet. Do you know who’s been following you?”

“Besides you?”

That almost got a smile. “Yes, besides me.”

“Gabriela Glass?” I pushed past Lane and stepped into the tiny apartment. “She wanted to meet me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea how to—”

“You’re Tristan!” My head was spinning, and only partly from alcohol and adrenaline. “And you’re here. In Paris.”

“I thought both of those points were rather obvious by now. Tamarind was worried about you. She told me what was going on and where you’d gone. Let’s get you some coffee and figure this out. It’s not safe to stay here. Come on. We’re going to—”

I stopped his words with my lips. I didn’t care what he was doing there. I just needed to feel his touch. His arms wrapped around me and his hands caressed the small of my back before abruptly pulling away.

He held me at arm’s length. “There’s no time for that.”

“You said whoever was here is gone.”

“And you’re drunk. I’ll gladly accept the turn of events if you’re no longer upset with me. But first, we need to sober you up and figure out what’s going on.”

“On no,” I said, stumbling backwards and falling into the fleur-de-lis pillows on the couch. “You’re here where it happened—”

He misinterpreted my reaction. “I saw the door had been forced. That’s why I grabbed you, to stop you from going in. Jones, you can’t think I’d—”

“I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid for you.” I grasped the starchy edges of the couch cushions, willing the sinking feeling to stop. “You’re being framed.”

Becca…Rick…Gabriela…Tristan…the haunted mansion…the ghost covering up the murder of Luc—no, his real name was Marc…the vanishing sculpture…My mind wouldn’t focus.

Lane pulled me up from the couch and wrapped his arms around me. I listened to his heartbeat with my head resting on his chest. His heart was beating too quickly. He wasn’t as calm as he was pretending to be.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmured into my hair. “This isn’t your mess. You shouldn’t feel—”

“Stop being stupid.” I held onto him more tightly. “Whatever is going on, you’re not on your own.”

I had to save Lane. I wouldn’t let a killer get away with letting Lane take the fall. Did he really think I’d let someone I loved—

“Sébastien!” I cried, pushing Lane away and scrambling for my phone. If I’d put my dear friend in danger yet again, I’d never forgive myself.

Lane swore. “You’ve involved Sébastien?”

“You didn’t know?” I stared at Lane while the phone rang. “Come on,” I whispered to myself. “Pick up.”

“Jaya?” The sound of Sébastien’s voice. “What’s happened?”

I was so relieved I didn’t care that Lane was glaring at me. Sébastien assured me he was safe, having met up for dinner with old friends after he’d left me. I was thankful he was better at answering his cell phone than I was.

“We’re going to my place,” Lane said. “Now.”

  

Lane’s “place” was a safe house I’d visited after our Louvre escapade. Two separate keys unlocked a narrow door that led to a studio apartment smaller than 200 square feet, which was a generous estimate. The largest piece of furniture was a couch that doubled as a bed, followed by a wooden table with two small chairs. I hadn’t remembered how small it was because the thing that had always struck me about it was how he’d filled the space. There used to be times when he’d need to hide out there laying low for more than a few days, so nearly every inch of wall space was put to use: a combination of bookshelves crammed with well-loved books on philosophy, art history, and fiction, and reproductions of artwork from around the world. And inside a pewter frame, a photograph of me.

Lane steered me toward the bathroom. “A cold shower will do you a world of good. You’ll thank me later.”

I didn’t thank him. But at least freshly brewed coffee was waiting for me when I stepped out of the bathroom wearing one of Lane’s dress shirts, which nearly reached my knees.

“The intruder didn’t bug your luggage,” he said, tossing my bag of clothes to me. “You can have your clothes back.”

“In a minute.” I dropped the bag at my bare feet and accepted the coffee. “My head is clearer now. Which for some reason is making things make less sense than they did before. You followed me to Paris—”

“Which I had to learn about from Tamarind.” Color rose in his cheeks, and he couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice as he continued. “She told me about Rick Coronado’s murder, the letter in your office, and she showed me the chapters. You should have—”

“You should have told me some things too.”

“I know. Those chapters…I need to tell you about them—”

“They’re your story. I know. And Tamarind doesn’t know everything.” I rummaged through my bag until I found the papers I was after. “There’s one more chapter.”

Lane read the pages in silence, spinning a pencil between his fingers, while I finished a second cup of strong coffee with plenty of sugar.

“This complicates things,” he said, throwing the pages onto the small wooden table so forcefully that they slid into my mug.

“How much do you know?”

“Apparently not nearly enough.”

I told him what I’d learned from Becca. How she’d convinced Rick Coronado to write her family’s story, knowing he was interested in the stolen statue, and then used him to avenge her father’s unsolved murder, before transferring to my university and getting close to me so she could watch Lane’s downfall.

“She used me to get to you,” I said.

It was my fault. They’d found Lane through me. Lane had tried to stay out of the media coverage that had followed our discoveries, leaving me to take full credit without him. But dammit, why had he taken two of the rubies? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

I had to focus. I could go back to being mad at him later.

Lane wanted to stay hidden, so no one would look into his past. But his photograph had appeared a few times, leading to people in his past to find him.

“I see the gears in your head spinning, Jones,” Lane said softly. “You’re wondering how she knew it was me.”

“That part, I know.”

“You do?”

“She saw you with her father seven years ago. She was thirteen and had a crush on you.”

“But when I was in Paris with Marc for that job, I was dressed as his old college friend—the one he thought I resembled already. There’s nothing that should connect me to this. Yet she knew.”

“You’re not just paranoid that you have a distinctive face. If someone has feelings for you and they’re looking closely, they’ll see through your disguises. At least the subtle ones.”

“I’m sorry. For all of this.”

“Don’t be. It’s mostly my fault. I’m the one who let my ego get in the way, allowing her to fool me. She’s trying to prove you killed her father. Becca is the one behind everything that’s happening now, but she’s not the one who killed her father—she’s seeking revenge, but against the wrong person.”

Ending up in the spotlight was the worst part of saving lost treasures. I hadn’t asked for any of it. I blinked back tears.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered before turning away. But I didn’t get far. He pulled me into his arms. I rested my head on his chest. But only for a moment. I pulled away and looked up at him.

“We need to figure out who actually did kill Marc Durant and Rick Coronado,” I said. “Because otherwise, you…” I couldn’t finish the rest of the sentence. I couldn’t lose Lane.

“I couldn’t solve it seven years ago.”

“That’s before you met me.” I looked into his hazel eyes. Flecks of emerald green shone in the light. “I refuse to lose you. I’m going to solve this. I need you to start at the real beginning of this story.”