Page 65 of The Scarab's Game

“It can’t be.” Dante pinched the bridge of his nose, his lids falling shut. “This has to be the copy.”

“Willing it to be true doesn’t make it so.”That should have been my motto.“The one I’ve been cleaning is the duplicate.”

He shook his head and let out a long breath, finally opening his eyes to look at my phone. “There must have been a mix-up.”

This explained why the painting had smeared when I tried to clean it using the conservator’s notes. He’d written those instructions for the painting staring at me from the wall, not the one I’d finished varnishing this afternoon.

“Perhaps”—Dante’s eyes flicked back and forth as he spoke, as though searching for an explanation—“the movers were told they’d be bringingWheatfieldonto the yacht, and they were confused. Perhaps they simply brought the wrong one?”

“When did they do that?”

“Last night.” He frowned at the painting. “While the one you’re cleaning sat in the workshop, out of its frame.”

“And you honestly think they accidentally delivered a fully intact painting?” I left my greater fear unsaid—that he’d swapped them intentionally. But if that was the case, why bring me on board and show me the truth?

Fear crawled up my spine.

If Emmett was right, and this was all an act, this yacht was the last place I should be. And accusing Dante was the last thing I should have been doing.

Dante’s gaze slid toward the wall of windows beside the bar. “It has to be a mistake. But…”

I wanted to believe him—hoped this might all be a simple misunderstanding. But a nagging doubt persisted.

“The ledgers,” he muttered.

Ledgers?

Before I could respond and ask what he meant, movement outside caught my eye. I turned, my heart nearly stopping as a familiar figure passed by the window.

Blond hair. Chiseled features. Strong nose.

Noah.

Scarlett’s former fiancé.

Noah—my heart beat too fast in my chest—who died two years ago.

At least, that’s what I’d thought. I’d gone to his funeral, after all.

Noah.

Did he have a twin I didn’t know about?

Dante saw him, too, the faintest relief washing over his face. “We should speak with Noah.”

My throat tightened. Not a twin.

“He’s one of my father’s associates, helping coordinate items for the auction and my father’s departure. He may have some idea of what’s going on.”

My mind reeled. Noah. Alive. Working with Massimo. The funeral… Scarlett’s grief… What was going on?

“I… I’m feeling a bit seasick,” I murmured, my voice tight as I tried to steady my breathing. Heat prickled at the back of my neck, and I put a hand against the wall, forcing myself to stay upright.

“We’re not moving.” Dante’s expression shifted to concern as he steadied me. “And the waves are barely?—”

“Weak stomach.” My pulse thundered in my ears, and I avoided glancing toward the windows again, where Noah might still be visible.

“But of course. I’ll speak with him later.”