what’s going on right now. This Hopper guy seems to think he can make me confess to some crime I’ve committed without telling me what I’m actually here for. Joke’s on him, though. I don’t even jaywalk. We can sit here all day, and the best he’ll get from me is that I once almost stole a grape at the grocery store, but I felt bad, so I put it back. That was also twenty years ago.
But I’m a lot less upset about being in this room than I am about the person who brought me here. The man who made me fall in love with him, only for me to find out it was all a lie. That he’s not a fire inspector. That he didn’t just show up in my life in some kind of funny meet-cute. That the feelings I have—had—for him are not reciprocated. Everything was an act. And I still don’t even know why.
“Honesty is the best policy here, Miss Dewan,” Hopper states. “If you answer my questions, then this will be a lot easier for everyone.”
“My customer’s name is Isabella Russo.”
He writes something down, then refocuses his eyes on me. “And how did you meet Mrs. Russo?”
I note the use of ‘Mrs.’, which implies he knows she’s married. This obviously has something to do with her or her husband. “I didn’t. She heard of me from a friend, then contacted me from my social media page. We’ve never met.”
He studies my face for a few more seconds, so I lift an eyebrow that I hope portrays I’d like to move on.
“What was the friend’s name?”
“Caroline something. I don’t know her either. We only ran into each other about two months ago. I drew a picture of her family, so I gave it to them. Oh, Brown. Caroline Brown.”
Hopper continues to ask me about my interaction with Caroline, where we were and what exactly was said. He asks how she contacted me afterward. I show him the messages on my phone, as well as the initial call log from Isabella. I never thought having a diary of messages and phone calls would come in handy, but I also never thought I’d have to prove my innocence for a crime I’m in the dark about. Then I also explain about Isabella’s request to sign the legal document, insisting I not share their photos or videos.
“Those are all being brought into evidence now. What else can you tell me—”
“What do you mean their photos are being brought into evidence?”
“I’m not sure if you realize this, Miss Dewan, but our warrant includes seizing anything in your apartment we deem helpful for our case.”
That freezes me in a panic. All of my drawings for the exhibit are packaged for transport and tucked under my bed frame. If any of them get ruined or brought into evidence, it would be nearly impossible to re-create them all in less than three weeks. Nor do I want to re-create some of them. After a few seconds, I plead again, “Just tell me what this is about, please. I’m not a criminal.”
“We’ll get to that part. What can you tell me about the art thefts in Chicago?”
Thefts? There have been multiple? “Agent Hopper, we seem to be on completely different channels. You’re talking to me like I know what you’re saying, but I don’t. I know of a theft from Smith Goldstein & Co. because I have news alerts set for that gallery on my phone. Other than that, I haven’t heard of anything.”
He furiously writes down something else before looking at me from a pair of non-expressive eyes. That must be a class at Quantico. “Why do you have alerts set?”
I take a deep breath, folding my hands together on the table in front of me. “I’m supposed to have my first exhibit there in a few weeks. Ever since I finished the drawing for Isabella, I’ve been working on pieces for that. I set alerts to see when the official press release went out so I could share it with people I care about.” Again, I look at the stupid window that every person who’s ever watched a TV show knows is a two-way mirror. I’d be willing to bet Archie is on the other side.
“So you haven’t heard about the other thefts in the area?”
This guy is dense. Is it an interrogation technique to repeat every question and hope I’ll give a different answer? If it is, it’s stupid.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever painted a replica of a famous work, Georgia?”
I guess now we’ve established enough rapport, he thinks he can use my first name. “Yes.”
His eyes shoot wide for a split second, but he schools his expression like a good little agent. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“I went to art school, Agent Hopper. Replicating famous works is a good way to hone your skills and train your eye to notice the smallest details. Not to mention, I’ve done at least twenty paint and wine nights with my friends. I don’t know how many versions I have of Starry Night, all in different stages of drunkenness. I can gift you one if you’re interested.”
He bites his bottom lip, but I don’t miss the near smile. “Have you ever sold a forgery to anyone else?”
“Woah. Slow down there. There’s a big difference between painting a replica and creating a forgery, Agent Hopper. The paintings I’ve made have been either for educational purposes or for entertainment. I’d never forge another artist’s work.” Even the implication I’d do something that atrocious makes me furious. “Art has been my life for as long as I can remember. And not in the way most people see it. I feel art. It’s like oxygen to me. That might sound crazy or stupid, but it touches me on an emotional level. What any famous work represents is that artist’s ability to touch people’s hearts with the stroke of a brush or curve of stone. I wouldn’t sell a forgery to save my soul.”
This guy studies me again, like I’m an SAT prep course. He’s put more effort into getting something out of me than I did in high school biology. “That’s a passionate speech.”
“If that’s what we’re calling the truth these days, then sure. Though, it seems people in your office have a hard time with truth called any name.” I glance up at the mirror again, but it gives away nothing. No shadows or movement to indicate someone else is there.
Hopper leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you know anyone who would create a forgery?”
If someone is out there forging art that not only means something to me, but to thousands of people, darn right I’m going to try to help. My heartbreak has to have a reason. “You need to give me more to go on here, Hopper. What kind of forging are you asking about? I’m assuming paintings, since that’s what you asked about, but are we talking realism? Pop art? Abstract? Impressionism? What time period? Modern? Renaissance? What medium? Watercolor? Oil?”
He glances down at his notes, grabbing a few papers and adjusting them on the table to straighten them. “A little bit of everything.”
“Then you’re not looking for one person. You’re looking for multiple artists.” I lean back in my chair, now studying Hopper with the same intensity he gave me.
He raises one eyebrow as he asks, “What makes you say that?”
“Because there’s a big difference between forging an oil portrait from the renaissance and a watercolor landscape from the forties. No one is that good at everything that they could pass them off for the originals.”
He scribbles down some more notes, then pushes his chair out to stand. How nice his isn’t bolted to the floor. Mine is secured at a distance better suited for someone six feet tall.
“I’ll be right back.” With that, he walks out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.