Chapter 3 - THE AUNT I WAS TAUGHT TO HATE
"Safe from my father?"
I repeated my mother's words because they didn't make sense.
I'd spent thirty-eight years believing my father was difficult, selfish, and controlling.
But dangerous enough that Grandpa needed to protect me?
That was something else.
Dad stepped toward Mom.
"You're confused. You're making this worse."
"No," I said. "You're making it worse every time you open your mouth."
I turned to Daniel.
"I want to find Judith."
Dad laughed bitterly.
"She won't speak to you."
"Then I'll hear that from her."
Martin secured the painting, and my gallery manager, Nora Santos, remained with the authorities who had been notified about the attempted removal.
Daniel assured me that the evidence would be preserved.
I left without looking at Brooke.
Outside, she hurried after me.
"Rachel, please."
I stopped on the sidewalk.
"Did you know Dad sold Grandpa's painting in 2014?"
"No."
"Did you know he forged my signature?"
"No!"
"Then what exactly did you know?"
She swallowed.
"That Martin would switch the painting. Dad said the buyer had already agreed to pay."
I stared at her.
"So you knew you were stealing from me."
Brooke's eyes filled.
"I thought you'd never miss the money."
"That's not an answer."
She looked down.
"Then I don't have one."
I walked away.
Judith wasn't difficult to find.
Daniel located her through a small art conservation cooperative in Salem.
She'd worked there for years, repairing damaged frames and teaching inexpensive weekend classes.
The irony almost made me laugh.
My parents had described her as a woman who stole from family.
Yet she'd spent years repairing things other people couldn't afford to replace.
When I entered the workshop, she was standing beside a wooden table, carefully cleaning an antique frame.
Her hair had turned almost completely white.
But I recognized her hands.
Long fingers.
A small scar across her left thumb.
The same hands that used to braid my hair before school.
"Judith?"
She turned.
The brush slipped from her fingers.
"Rachel?"
Neither of us moved.
Then she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around me.
I hadn't realized how badly I missed her until I felt myself crying.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered. "You grew up without me."
I held on tighter.
"Why didn't you come back?"
She stepped away.
"Because your mother told me you never wanted to see me again."
I stared.
"She told me you stole from Grandpa."
Judith's expression changed.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she opened a drawer and removed a bundle of birthday cards.
Twenty-two of them.
Every envelope had my name.
Some carried postal markings showing they'd been returned.
Others had never been mailed.
"I tried for years," she said. "Eventually I thought your parents might be telling the truth about what you wanted."
My chest hurt.
All those birthdays.
All those years.
Two women who loved each other, each believing the other had walked away.
I placed the cards gently on the table.
"Tell me about the painting."
Judith sat opposite me.
"In 2014, your father arranged to sell it through a private dealer. Samuel was in the hospital recovering from surgery."
She looked toward the window.
"I found out because a former colleague recognized the painting in a sale proposal."
She'd borrowed against her modest house and emptied most of her savings to purchase it before the dealer could send it overseas.
"$185,000," she said. "More than I could reasonably afford."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because your grandfather loved that painting. And because Robert had already taken enough from him."
She paused.
"Nine days later, I returned the original to Samuel."
I leaned forward.
"Then how did the copy end up in his gallery?"
"Samuel arranged it."
I stared.
"Grandpa knowingly displayed a fake?"
"He wanted the real one somewhere Robert couldn't reach it. The reproduction was good enough to keep people from asking questions."
"Where did he put the original?"
"I don't know where it ended up. He moved it again years later."
I could barely believe her.
Grandpa had been protecting the painting while pretending everything was normal.
"Why didn't he tell me?"
Judith's eyes softened.
"He said you were building your own life. He wouldn't let Robert turn you into another person who had to spend her days cleaning up his mistakes."
Then she opened an old photograph album.
Inside was a photograph dated October 2022.
Grandpa stood beside a large wooden shipping crate.
He looked older and thinner than I remembered.
And beside him stood my mother.
Vivian Mitchell.
One hand rested on the crate.
The other held a folded shipping label.
Judith pointed at the photograph.
"Samuel sent me this after he moved the painting into long-term conservation custody."
I studied Mom's face.
She looked serious.
Almost frightened.
"She helped him?"
"Apparently."
"Then why is she helping Dad steal the painting now?"
Judith shook her head.
"That's what worries me."
I enlarged the photograph on my phone.
A number had been written across the crate in black marker.
417\.
Beneath it, in Grandpa's unmistakable handwriting, were four words.
KEEP UNTIL RACHEL IS READY.
I looked at Judith.
"Ready for what?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned the photograph over.
May you like
On the back, Grandpa had written one more sentence.
If Vivian ever asks for this painting, don't give it to her.
