Wolf gripped the steering wheel of his new Ford van as he and Carol drove through the desert darkness toward Las Vegas. He’d purchased the vehicle with some of the loot from the forged Kleitsch painting, “The Farm”. Each mile brought them closer to a business relationship with Vinny Di Nuccio, the man who had probably murdered Amelia Ha

Vinny’s words from their last phone call echoed in his mind: “Dead women tell no tales.” Had that been a general observation about the benefits of Amelia’s death, or something closer to a confession?

“You’re quiet tonight,” Carol observed, adjusting the radio as neon signs began appearing in the distance.

Wolf forced a smile. “Can’t stop thinking about business.”

But what he was really thinking about was how Amelia had ended up at the bottom of that cliff on New Year’s Eve, and whether the man they were about to meet had pushed her there over forty thousand dollars in gambling debts.

The Stardust Hotel blazed against the night sky like a monument to greed and excess. As they pulled into the parking lot, Wolf felt his stomach clench. Every successful forgery had bound him tighter to Vinny’s criminal operation, made him more complicit in whatever had happened to Amelia.

In the lobby, slot machines chirped and jangled while fortune-seekers fed them coins with mechanical devotion. Wolf approached the check-in counter, their oversized suitcase heavy in his hand—not just with clothes, but with two carefully crafted forgeries that would either make them rich or get them killed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt, your suite awaits,” the desk clerk announced with practiced enthusiasm.

Their room was a shrine to expensive taste—red shag carpet, gold brocade drapes, and a crystal decanter that filled the air with the scent of luxury. It was the kind of place that whispered of power and violence in equal measure.

“I feel like a five-hundred-dollar hooker in this place,” Carol laughed, spinning in her dress.

Wolf’s smile felt sick. The luxury was Vinny’s way of showing his power. He could give them anything, which meant he could take everything away just as easily, including their lives, if Wolf’s suspicions about Amelia were correct.

A knock at the door made Wolf’s pulse spike. He opened it to reveal Vinny Di Nuccio’s silhouette framed by the hallway’s golden glow.

Vinny entered the room like he owned it, which he did. But Wolf couldn’t shake the image of this same man visiting Amelia’s house on New Year’s Eve, perhaps discussing her gambling debts one final time. Had those same hands that now gestured expansively pushed Amelia off her cliff?

“I trust you find your lodging satisfactory,” Vinny said, his voice smooth as expensive bourbon.

“It’s incredible, Mr. Di Nuccio,” Wolf replied, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“You’re my guests here at the Stardust. Food, shows, whatever you desire—put it on your room tab.” Vinny’s smile was predatory. “Though if you feel lucky at the tables, that’s your own business.”

“Oh, we don’t gamble,” Carol said quickly.

“Smart policy,” Vinny agreed, producing Elvis tickets with a magician’s flourish. “The King’s in town. Enjoy yourselves.”

Wolf accepted the tickets with hands that he hoped weren’t trembling. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“My pleasure.” Vinny’s eyes glittered with something Wolf couldn’t identify. “Now, did you bring me some Indians?”

Wolf’s mouth felt like cotton as he opened the suitcase and removed two framed paintings—a Remington and an Eastman, both masterful forgeries that had taken weeks to complete. He propped them on the sofa, wondering if his artistic skills had somehow contributed to Amelia’s death. Had his ability to create fake valuable art given Vinny ideas about her collection’s worth?

Vinny’s fingers traced the edge of the Remington. “This one looks fresh.”

“It’s designed to look like a century-old painting that’s been recently restored,” Wolf’s voice sounded steadier than he felt.

“Explain.”

Wolf turned to the Eastman, his hands moving with precision despite his inner turmoil. “This shows how a hundred years ages a painting—the yellowed varnish, the craquelure webbing. But the actual painting is only four weeks old.”

Vinny leaned back, genuinely impressed. “Could have fooled me.”

“It fooled the expert at Butterfield’s Auction House. He valued it at two thousand, guaranteed.”

“And the Remington?”

Wolf demonstrated the relining technique, explaining how restorers protected old canvases. “Butterfield’s expert was impressed with the ‘restoration work.’ It adds significant value.”

Vinny’s smile was shark-like. “How does a kid like you get so damn sharp?”

“Wolfgang is a Certified Art Restorer trained in Europe,” Carol said proudly, completely unaware of the danger radiating from their host.

Wolf felt sick. Carol’s innocence was both her protection and her vulnerability. She had no idea she was praising a criminal to a man Wolf believed was a murderer.

“Carol, my dear,” Vinny said smoothly, “would you mind if I borrowed Wolf for a private conversation?”

Carol’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Of course.”

“Excellent. Why don’t you enjoy our spa while you wait? Third floor—ask for Margot. Tell her I want you to feel like a queen.”

After Carol left, Vinny’s demeanor shifted subtly. The gracious host facade remained, but something colder lurked beneath.

Vinny’s office contained original art worth six figures. That is, Wolf thought the paintings were original. In Vinny’s world, authenticity was just another negotiable commodity.

“I can’t quite figure out your girlfriend’s role in our little enterprise,” Vinny began, circling Wolf like a predator sizing up prey.

Wolf’s neck prickled with anger. “You mean my wife? Carol’s with me. We don’t keep secrets.”

“Is that so?” Vinny’s voice carried a subtle menace. “Does she know everything about your relationship with Amelia?”

The question caught Wolf off guard. This wasn’t casual conversation. It was an interrogation about liability, about who knew what, about who might talk to the police.

“Not everything,” Wolf admitted, hating how weak his voice sounded.

“Good. Keep it that way.” Vinny’s smile was arctic. “In this business, Wolf, ignorance is often the difference between a long life and a short one. Make sure Carol stays... uninformed about the details of our operations.”

Wolf heard the threat clearly. “Understood.”

“I hope so.” Vinny settled behind his massive desk. “Now, let’s discuss some practical matters. You won’t be dealing directly with me anymore. Aaron Hudson at Las Vegas Antiques will be your contact. Bring him pieces like these, He’ll give you cash. Clean, simple, safe.”

Wolf nodded, though nothing about this felt safe.

“This Detective Stone from Laguna Beach,” Vinny continued, “he’s been very thorough in his investigation of poor Amelia’s death. Asking about her art collection, her finances, her... associates.”

Wolf’s blood turned to ice. “What kind of questions?”

“The kind that suggests he knows more than he’s letting on. The kind that could be very problematic for us.” Vinny’s gaze was laser-focused. “You wouldn’t know anything about Amelia’s death, would you?”

The question hung in the air like a noose. Was Vinny testing whether Wolf suspected him? Or was he genuinely trying to gauge Wolf’s involvement?

“I know she owed you money,” Wolf said carefully.

“Forty thousand dollars can weigh heavy on someone’s mind,” Vinny agreed. “Sometimes people do desperate things when they’re cornered by debt. Sometimes they make poor decisions about where to walk on dark, stormy nights.”

The way Vinny described it was so specific, so knowing, it made Wolf’s skin crawl. Was that the voice of someone who’d been there? Who’d seen Amelia fall, or pushed her?

“She was found at the bottom of a cliff,” Wolf managed.

“Tragic accident,” Vinny replied, but his eyes remained cold and calculating. “Though the police seem to think otherwise. They’re calling it murder now.”

Wolf felt trapped between competing terrors. If he agreed, was he acknowledging Vinny’s guilt? If he disagreed, was he covering for a killer?

“The investigation will probably focus on her personal relationships,” Vinny continued. “Lovers, business partners, people who might have had access to her house on New Year’s Eve.”

The implicit threat was clear: Wolf had been Amelia’s lover and business partner. He could easily become the prime suspect if Vinny decided to deflect attention.

“Art fraud is a federal crime,” Vinny added casually. “Interstate commerce, you understand. The FBI takes a very dim view of people who flood the market with forgeries. Twenty-year sentences aren’t uncommon.”

Wolf realized he was caught in a perfect trap. If he tried to leave the operation, Vinny could frame him for Amelia’s murder. If he stayed, he faced federal prison for art fraud. Either way, he was bound to a man he believed was a killer.

“New Year’s Eve was a busy night,” Vinny said thoughtfully. “Parties, celebrations, people out and about. Sometimes witnesses surface when you least expect them. The key is making sure they don’t want to talk.”

Wolf shuddered. Vinny wasn’t just worried about the current investigation. He was prepared to silence anyone who might threaten their operation.

“I have a business proposition regarding Amelia’s estate,” Vinny continued. “Her daughter Julie is now responsible for my loan to Amelia. She will have to settle the debt before she can sell the house. I have a proposition for her. I’ll cancel her mother’s debt in exchange for the eight forgeries you painted for Amelia’s collection. You think she’ll go for it/“

“Hum…Julie doesn’t know they’re forgeries. She’ll probably think those eight paintings are worth a lot more.”

Exactly. That’s why you’re gonna have to come clean. Tell her what’s what.”

Wolf felt nauseous. “Her father, Howard Bloom, might be a problem,” Wolf warned.

“Men like Bloom understand business. They know when to fight and when to accept a generous offer.” Vinny’s smile was reptilian. “Everyone can be made to see reason, Wolf. Everyone.”

As Wolf walked back to the suite, he realized he was trapped in a nightmare of his own making. He’d started as an artist looking for easy money and had become an accessory to what he believed was murder. Every successful forgery bound him tighter to Vinny, made him more complicit..

The police investigation was intensifying. Detective Stone was asking the right questions, and federal agents were reportedly interested in the art fraud angle. When the investigation finally connected Wolf to Amelia’s death—whether as witness, accomplice, or fall guy—would Vinny let him live to testify?

Wolf thought about Carol, trusting and innocent, waiting for him in their luxury suite. She had no idea that her husband suspected their host of murder, or that their romantic criminal adventure was actually a death trap closing around them both.

The forgery operation that had promised freedom and wealth now felt like a prison built from his own greed and talent. Wolf was caught between a police investigation that could destroy him and a criminal partner who might kill him to protect the operation.

And Carol was trapped right alongside him, an innocent caught in a web of forgery, murder, and greed that was about to collapse around them all.

As Wolf reached for the door handle, he made a silent promise: whatever happened, he would find a way to protect Carol from the monster he’d made a deal with, even if it cost him his life.

Order your signed edition of Canvas of Secrets here.

Dennis’s phone rang at 6 AM, cutting through the pre-dawn quiet like a blade and jolting him from the uneasy sleep that had plagued him since the bluff. His dreams had been filled with fragments—Julie’s tears, the crashing waves below, shadows moving through the darkness. The harsh ring seemed to echo in his cramped apartment, bouncing off the sparse furnishings that marked his new civilian life.

Ray’s voice crackled through the receiver, tight with the kind of frustration Dennis recognized from his military days—the sound of a man under pressure with time running out. “I’m looking into the connection between the John Birch Society connection to Jack Hart and Amelia Hart’s murder. What can you tell me about the Brichers?”

Dennis sat up in bed. His mind cleared immediately, shifting from the fog of sleep to sharp focus. The morning light filtering through his thin curtains cast long shadows across the room, and he could hear the distant hum of early commuter traffic beginning to build on the Coast Highway.

“I might be able to help with that,” Dennis said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline now coursing through his system. “There’s this guy at work—Martin. He’s a Bircher, no question about it. Always trying to recruit me, dropping hints about the communist threat, wearing that JBS pin like a badge of honor.”

“Good. See what you can find out what he knows about Jack Hart.”

“Will do.”

The Daily Pilot newsroom buzzed with its usual morning energy—typewriters clacking, phones ringing, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke mixing with fresh coffee. Dennis made his way through the maze of desks, nodding to colleagues while scanning for Martin’s familiar profile. He found him hunched over a stack of papers near the sports desk. Martin looked up as Dennis approached, his thin face brightening with the eager expression of a man always ready to convert the unconvinced.

Dennis pulled up a chair, keeping his voice casual despite the urgency thrumming beneath his skin. “You mentioned some influential people in the organization. Ever heard of Jack Hart?”

Martin’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that made Dennis’s skin crawl.

“Everyone knows Jack. Sharp businessman, real patriot. Understands what this country’s up against better than most.” Martin’s fingers drummed against his desk with nervous energy. “Why do you ask?”

“Read something about his oil company. Seems like the kind of man who gets things done.”

“Oh, he does. Jack doesn’t just talk about fighting the communist infiltration; he acts. Been with JBS for years, really stepped up his involvement lately.” Martin’s voice carried the reverence of a true believer. “Matter of fact, he’ll be at the meeting tonight. Why don’t you come and check it out?”

Dennis felt his pulse quicken. The pieces were falling into place faster than he’d hoped, but he kept his expression neutral, mildly interested rather than hungry for information.

“Meeting?”

“Monthly gathering. Nothing fancy, just concerned citizens discussing the threats facing our nation. Jack usually speaks. He has a brilliant mind for strategy. You’d learn a lot.”

The typewriter keys seemed louder now, each strike echoing in Dennis’s ears as he weighed his options. This could be exactly what Ray needed—a direct connection between Jack Hart and the organization that had been threatening Amelia. But walking into a room full of John Birch Society members felt like stepping into enemy territory.

“Where and when?”

Martin scribbled an address on a piece of paper, his handwriting precise and careful. “Seven o’clock. Newport Beach Community Center. Ask for the Patriots’ Room.”

Dennis pocketed the paper, already planning his approach. “Thanks, Martin. Sounds interesting.”

As Martin walked away, Dennis realized what he was committing to. He was planning to infiltrate a group of potential extremists with less than twelve hours to prepare. The distinction between courage and recklessness seemed increasingly unclear—especially when someone else might pay the price for his choices.

The Community Center smelled of coffee and nervous sweat, the close air thick with the tension of true believers. A malfunctioning fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting intermittent shadows that made Dennis’s eyes water. He positioned himself three rows from the back, close enough to hear clearly but far enough to avoid notice. He’d chosen a seat near the side exit.

Dennis poured himself coffee from the urn in the corner and immediately regretted it—bitter coffee that tasted like it had been sitting for hours. He forced himself to sip it anyway, needing something to occupy his hands while he scanned the room, cataloging faces and exits. His heart rate remained steady despite the circumstances. Dr. Braunfeld’s treatment had taught him that emotions were temporary visitors, not permanent residents. This anxiety would pass.

Then he saw Jack Hart across the room, and his stomach dropped.

Hart was working the crowd like a politician with an election coming up, but his movements had the confidence of someone in his element. This wasn’t just attendance, but leadership.

“Jack! Over here!” called a robust voice from the corner.

Hart navigated through the crowd, backslapping as he went. “Tom, you old hawk. How’s the family?”

“Better for seeing you, Jack. Kids are growing like weeds.”

A business-suited woman approached, and Dennis caught the deference in her posture. “What about you, Jack? Still fighting the good fight?”

Hart’s laugh was low and confident. “Someone’s got to stand up for traditional values, Diane. Especially after our recent success.” He glanced around the room with satisfaction. “Sometimes problems solve themselves when patriots pay attention.”

Dennis leaned forward, straining to catch Hart’s next words.

“Take that Hart woman—no relation, thank God. All that anti-war poison she was spreading to impressionable young minds. Well, let’s just say some voices don’t need to be heard anymore.”

The woman at the podium cleared her throat, calling for attention. “This month, our educational films reached three more schools. Young people need to understand the threats facing our country. We can’t let communist sympathizers corrupt another generation.”

Murmurs of approval rustled through the crowd. Dennis leaned toward the matronly woman beside him. “Important work.”

She beamed. “Oh yes, awareness is key. We discussed the Laguna Artist situation at my bridge club just last week.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Amazing how quickly certain voices can be silenced when real patriots take coordinated action.”

“She thought she was untouchable,” someone behind Dennis said quietly. “Well, we showed her what happens to traitors.”

Another voice, barely audible: “New Year’s Eve was quite the celebration, wasn’t it? One less communist sympathizer poisoning young minds.”

Dennis’s blood ran cold. They weren’t just talking about silencing opposition. They were celebrating Amelia’s murder. He forced himself to join the scattered applause with hollow claps, watching Hart accept quiet congratulations from several attendees.

As the formal meeting wound down, Dennis remained seated, waiting for the crowd to thin. Jack Hart was still there, holding court with his inner circle, accepting praise like a war hero. Dennis needed to get closer, to hear what they said when they thought only allies were listening.

But as he stood to move, Hart’s eyes found his across the room. Recognition dawned slowly on Hart’s face, followed by something much more dangerous. Hart excused himself from his group and walked directly toward Dennis, his expression shifting from confusion to cold calculation.

“Well, well. Dennis Driver from the Daily Pilot.” Hart’s voice was friendly, but his eyes were ice. “Funny seeing you here. You following me?”

“Just trying to understand different perspectives,” Dennis said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Hart studied him for a long moment, then smiled. “You know, Dennis, I’ve been reading your articles about poor Amelia. Very... thorough reporting.”

The way Hart said “thorough” made Dennis’s skin crawl.

“Fact is,” Hart continued, stepping closer and lowering his voice to a whisper only Dennis could hear, “I know quite a bit about you. Your service record. Your breakdown. Your treatment with Dr. Braunfeld.” Hart’s smile widened. “Funny thing about reporters with Vietnam Syndrome. They have episodes. Breakdowns. Sometimes they hurt people they care about.”

The threat hit Dennis like a physical blow. Hart had done his homework—he knew about the treatment, probably knew about Julie too.

“Be a real shame if Julie Bloom had to deal with another tragedy so soon after losing her mother,” Hart continued, his voice still conversational. “Mental health is so fragile, isn’t it? Especially in veterans. Sometimes they just... snap.”

Dennis felt the room spinning slightly, but forced himself to maintain eye contact. “Good evening, Mr. Hart.”

Hart’s hand clamped down on Dennis’s shoulder, fingers digging in just hard enough to hurt. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other very soon. In fact, I’d bet on it. And Dennis?” Hart’s grip tightened. “Be careful driving home tonight. These roads can be dangerous for people who aren’t paying attention.”

Dennis turned and walked toward the exit, feeling Hart’s gaze burning into his back. The door seemed miles away, but he forced himself to maintain a steady pace. Don’t run. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t let him see how rattled you are.

He reached the door and stepped into the cool night air, his lungs filling with relief. But as he walked toward his car, Dennis noticed Hart at the church window, watching Dennis’s every move. Two men Dennis recognized from the meeting were already in the parking lot, moving toward separate vehicles.

Dennis started his engine, heart hammering. In his rearview mirror, he saw one of the men getting into a dark sedan while the other climbed into a pickup truck. They followed him down the Coast Highway. When Dennis turned right toward Julie’s house, both vehicles followed.

Dennis took a circuitous route through residential neighborhoods, watching both vehicles match his every turn. Hart’s threats echoed in his mind: Sometimes they just snap. The bastard was planning to make Dennis look like he’d had a breakdown, hurt Julie, maybe killed himself. The perfect way to discredit any evidence Dennis might have gathered.

Finally, Dennis pulled into the Von’s Market parking lot and waited. The sedan drove past without slowing, but the pickup truck parked across the street with a clear view of Dennis’s position. They weren’t trying to hide anymore—they wanted him to know he was being watched.

This was at a dinner party, the kind where someone asks what you do and then visibly recalibrates after you answer. A woman across the table: a reader, she’d told us proudly, tilted her head in the way people do when they’re being careful. “Oh,” she said. “So you couldn’t find a publisher?”

I had three novels and no good answer, so I ate my salmon and let it go.

That was three years ago. I’ve since made a separate peace with the label, though I arrived at it the wrong way: through the back door of personal essays rather than through the literary tradition that apparently justifies it.

Whitman self-published Leaves of Grass, then reviewed it himself under a pseudonym, which is either brazen self-promotion or the nineteenth century’s version of gaming the Amazon algorithm. Montaigne wrote ninety-four essays in a tower on his family estate, paid to have them printed, and handed a copy to the King of France. Neither man waited for permission. Both understood, before the word existed, that self-publishing was the natural home of anyone unwilling to write on someone else’s schedule toward someone else’s idea of the market.

I didn’t know any of this when I published my first novel. I self-published because the traditional route had closed, firmly and repeatedly. I had a book I believed in. I had a finite number of years left to be wrong about it.

Plan B, which is what I would eventually name my publishing company, tells you something about how well I was thinking it through.

What I understand now, fifty essays later, is that I had the categories backward.

The essays clarified it. Not because they’re more literary than the novels—they’re shorter and messier—but because they stripped away the last of my attachment to official channels. You write something on a Tuesday. You publish it on Thursday. Whoever shows up, shows up. No agent, no acquisitions meeting, no distributor policy. Just the work and the reader and nothing in between.

Montaigne had his tower. I have a desk and a Substack account. Same impulse, different century, and considerably better wifi. A person retreats, writes what he actually thinks, and releases it into the world on his own authority.

I thought about the woman at the dinner party recently. She wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t find a publisher. She was wrong about what that meant, which is a different thing entirely, and one I couldn’t have explained to her then.

I can now. Though I’d probably just eat my salmon again.

Some points take fifty essays to reach.

I named my publishing company Plan B. Make of that what you will.

Leave a comment. Tell me I'm wrong. I've been told I take criticism well, which is technically true — I just don't act on it.

The Butterfield Auction House exhaled history and money in equal measure, the air thick with the scent of wax polish and old canvas. Wolf positioned himself near the valuation counter, close enough to observe Carol but far enough to avoid the security cameras he’d mapped during previous visits. The soft murmur of appraised values drifted through the room like a constant prayer to commerce.

Carol stood in line clutching a Robinson’s Department Store shopping bag, two framed paintings hidden inside. Her posture was perfect—nervous enough to seem authentic, composed enough to inspire confidence. Wolf had coached her for hours, but watching her now, he felt an unexpected tightness in his chest. She trusted him completely, believed they were partners in this grand adventure. She had no idea how expendable that made her.

Wolf scanned the room. The security guard by the entrance, the cameras in the corners, the flow of foot traffic—all catalogued and assessed. Since Amelia’s death, he’d noticed increased police activity around the art scene. Detective Stone had been asking questions, and Julie was growing more suspicious. Maybe it was time to be more careful.

The man ahead of Carol wore a cowboy hat and clutched what looked like a landscape. He shuffled away from the counter with hunched shoulders. Another hopeful seller was disappointed. The screener, a sharp-eyed woman in her thirties, gestured Carol forward.

Carol placed her paintings on the counter with steady hands, though Wolf caught the slight tremor in her fingers as she adjusted the frames. “I’d like these evaluated for auction, please.”

The screener’s eyes brightened as she examined the pieces. She lifted the Remington first, angling it toward the light. Wolf’s jaw tightened as she lingered over one corner of the canvas on the exact spot where he’d aged the paint with coffee grounds and cigarette ash.

“Can you tell me how you acquired these?” the screener asked.

“I inherited them from my grandfather’s estate,” Carol replied, her voice steadier than Wolf had expected. “My mother thinks they might be valuable.”

“I’ll get our American art expert. Please wait here.”

Wolf turned away and wandered into the adjacent viewing room, maintaining his cover. He’d spent too many hours in these halls lately—someone sharp might start to notice patterns. But the education was invaluable, and the money was too good to stop.

A man in a double-knit suit approached Carol, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with the obsessive precision of someone who’d spent decades staring at brushstrokes. Wolf positioned himself behind a display cabinet, close enough to observe but ready to disappear if needed.

The expert examined the Eastman first, clicking his tongue softly, a habit that suggested years of making these judgments. “Nice little Seth Eastman. Maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand, depending on the market’s mood.” Wolf’s pulse quickened. So far, so good.

The expert turned to the Remington, and Wolf held his breath. This was the more ambitious forgery, the one that could either make them rich or expose them completely. “My, my, this Remington has been beautifully restored,” His voice carried genuine admiration as he clicked his tongue again. “Superb work. Do you know who handled the restoration?”

Wolf couldn’t suppress a slight smile. The man was praising restoration work that had never happened—every crack, every faded brushstroke was Wolf’s deliberate creation.

“No, I inherited it as is,” Carol replied.

“Remarkable craftsmanship. Do you have others like these in the estate?”

Carol glanced toward Wolf’s general direction, a movement so brief only he would notice. “Yes, several more.”

“I’d be very interested in seeing them. Very interested indeed.” The expert’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses. “How much are you hoping to get for the Remington?”

“I’m not sure what it’s worth.”

“At least twenty-five hundred, possibly more. The conservation work alone saves a buyer considerable expense.” The expert gestured to his assistant. “Please prepare formal valuations for both pieces.”

Outside in the Los Angeles afternoon, Wolf felt the excruciating mixture of exhilaration and unease that followed every successful con.

“Did you see his face when he looked at the Remington?” Carol asked, her eyes bright with excitement. “That little tongue-clicking thing he did, like he’d found buried treasure.”

“He was practically drooling,” Wolf replied, but something nagged at him. The expert had been almost too interested, too eager to see more pieces.

“Your work is incredible,” Carol said, reaching for his hand. “The way you aged that canvas. He actually complimented your restoration work.”

Wolf nodded, watching her fingers intertwine with his. She squeezed his hand, and he felt that familiar hollow sensation—the recognition that she loved an illusion, believed in a partnership that existed only in her imagination. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to deserve that trust.

“That was almost too easy,” Carol continued.

“That’s what worries me,” Wolf said, pushing down the unexpected guilt. “When something seems too easy, it usually means you’re missing something.”

Carol’s smile faltered slightly. “You think he suspected?”

“No, but he’s very interested. Maybe too interested.” Wolf glanced back at the auction house. “We need to be careful about how many pieces we feed through Butterfield’s. Success breeds attention.”

“Are you worried about the police investigation?”

Wolf had been trying not to think about Detective Stone’s persistence or Julie’s growing suspicions. “I’m worried about getting sloppy. The more successful we become, the more visible we are.”

Carol linked her arm through his, trusting and warm against his side. “We make a good team.”

Wolf smiled, though they both understood the reality. He was the talent: she was the face. Useful, attractive, convincing, and ultimately replaceable. The thought should have felt empowering, but instead, it left him strangely empty. “The world is full of possibilities for people like us,” he said instead.

As they walked toward his car, Wolf caught a glimpse of a black sedan parked across the street. Nothing unusual about that, except he was almost certain he’d seen the same car near his studio twice this week.

He didn’t mention it to Carol. No point in making her nervous over what was probably nothing.

But Wolf Schmidt had survived this long by trusting his instincts, and right now, his instincts were telling him that their charmed run might be coming to an end. The question was whether he’d have the courage to protect Carol when it did, or if his survival instincts would prove stronger than whatever remained of his conscience.