Page 61 of The Scarab's Game

Ridiculous.

Me and Emmett.Sonot in love with me.

I leaned against the worktable.

Dr. Ferraro said to tell the De Rosas about it being a fake. But could I trust Dante? Did he know it was a fake? Had I been wrong about him this whole time?

Face it, Jenn, your judgment when it comes to men is seriously screwed up.

I added a few notes about the conversation to my notebook, stuffed it into my purse, and threw myself back into the cleaning. My thoughts were an even more chaotic mess than before. Muscle memory took over.

What was I going to tell Dante? If this painting was a fake, it couldn’t go to auction. But if Dante was involved in something shady and found out I knew the truth, what would he do to me?

Now you’re being ridiculous. You’ve seen too many movies.

Or you’ve listened to Emmett too much.

Of course, someonehadbroken into my hotel room. Someonehadgone through my things.

But Emmett was the only one who’d pulled a gun on me.

Once I finished the cleaning, I turned on the lights, remounted the painting on its stretcher, and made some repairs to the frame. Too soon, the varnish was drying, its glossy surface catching the light.

And I was out of excuses to avoid confronting Dante.

I stripped off my protective gear, took a deep breath, and went to his office. My knock was met with a distracted, “Yes?”

Dante looked up as I entered, his tense face giving way to a smile, then back to tense. “Is everything all right?”

“We need to talk,” I blurted out before I lost my nerve.

He shifted his posture away from the computer and leaned his elbows on the desk, giving me his full attention. “About?”

“The painting.”

He clasped his hands in front of himself, his brows drawing down. “Will it not be ready?”

I hesitated, studying his face. Was it genuine confusion, or was he a talented liar who knew I was about to tell him I’d figured it out?

“You need to see something,” I said finally, gesturing for him to follow me into the workshop.

I stopped in front of the painting, where it sat near the edge of the table. “When I started cleaning, I noticed a few things that weren’t quite right, so I called an associate and sent him the UV photos you helped me with.”

Dante watched me instead of the painting.

I was alone in a back room of a gallery with a man I’d just met—a wealthy one who Emmett warned me was dangerous. Was I risking my safety?Deep breath.I opened the email on my phone and placed it beside the drying canvas. “This photo was taken in the ’50s, when the painting was sold at auction. If you look closely, you’ll see the signature from the auction catalog and the painting I’ve been working on don’t match.”

Dante leaned in, hovering over the phone and the painting. “They’re close, though?”

Close? Close didn’t count in authenticity. Accuracy did.

“This can’t be right,” he murmured, moving slowly back and forth between my phone and the painting. “Your associate? Who is this? Someone we can trust?”

“His name is Dr. Antonio Ferraro, and he?—”

Dante straightened immediately. “Ferraro?”

“Yes, his family?—”