Chương 3
Maya looked at her.
Claire seemed embarrassed by the offer.
Not afraid. Embarrassed.
Like she did not want Maya to think she was involving herself for excitement.
“Thank you.”
“I also told security to preserve the house footage.”
Maya hesitated.
“Did Mr. Vale tell you to?”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
Claire glanced back toward the ballroom.
“Because people become surprisingly confused about what happened once attorneys start calling.”
Despite everything, Maya almost smiled.
“Do they?”
“I coordinate private auctions in Los Angeles.”
“Right.”
Claire opened the door.
Rain roared in.
A staff member hurried over with an umbrella.
Maya stepped beneath it.
As the door closed behind her, she heard Richard’s voice somewhere inside.
Not shouting.
Worse.
“Tell me what you knew.”
Then the storm swallowed the rest.
By six the next morning, the slap had eight hundred thousand views.
Maya learned that because her friend Janelle called seven times, sent twelve messages, then came to Maya’s apartment in Silver Lake with coffee and a bag of frozen peas.
“You look terrible,” Janelle said.
“Good morning.”
“Your face is on TMZ.”
“I know.”
“You knew and didn’t call me?”
“I was busy being on TMZ.”
Janelle put the peas against Maya’s cheek.
Maya pushed them away.
“They’re leaking.”
“It’s condensation.”
“It’s peas.”
“Frozen things produce condensation.”
Maya took them and held them to her face.
Janelle sat on the kitchen counter.
She had known Maya since graduate school and possessed the irritating talent of becoming quieter the more serious something was.
“So,” she said.
Maya stared at her coffee.
“So.”
“The billionaire?”
“Possibly.”
“Your father?”
“I said possibly.”
“The video makes it look pretty definite.”
“The video is fifteen seconds.”
“It has a photograph.”
“It has a man reading a photograph.”
“And asking his wife how long she knew his daughter was alive.”
Maya set down the coffee.
“Please don’t.”
Janelle nodded.
“Okay.”
Maya looked toward the small cardboard box on the dining table.
Her mother’s things had been sitting there for six months.
Not all of them. Most were in a storage unit in Glendale because Maya had not been able to decide what to keep and had solved the problem by paying one hundred and forty-eight dollars a month not to decide.
The box contained Elena’s recipe cards, a scarf, two old pairs of reading glasses, three birthday cards Maya had written as a child, and a small envelope of jewelry.
No explanation.
No Richard Vale.
No dead baby.
No family conspiracy.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She ignored it.
It stopped.
Then another unknown number called.
Janelle looked at the screen.
“Journalist?”
“Probably.”
“Lawyer?”
“Maybe.”
“Secret sibling?”
Maya looked at her.
“Too early.”
“Sorry.”
The phone stopped again.
A text arrived from her client, Martin Beck, the collector who had sent her to the Vale auction.
CALL ME BEFORE YOU SPEAK TO ANYONE.
Maya stared at it.
Janelle leaned over.
“That sounds supportive.”
“He pays me.”
“That’s different.”
Maya called.
Martin answered immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You need representation.”
“For being slapped?”
“For everything that apparently comes with being slapped by Victoria Vale.”
Maya moved to the window.
The rain had weakened to a gray drizzle. Cars hissed along Sunset Boulevard.
“I’m not making any claims.”
“You don’t have to make a claim for people to make claims about you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means two reporters have called my office asking whether I hired Richard Vale’s secret daughter to infiltrate his auction.”
Maya closed her eyes.
“Martin.”
“I know.”
“I was there because of the Lorrain painting.”
“I told them that.”
“Did they believe you?”
“They were reporters. Their job is to ask again in a different tone.”
Maya rubbed her forehead.
Martin continued.
“I don’t care who your father is. I care about your work. But you should know the seller’s attorney emailed at five-thirty this morning asking whether your preliminary questions about the restoration history were part of some personal dispute.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never met Richard Vale.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know my mother had.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then Martin said, “But other people do not know.”
Maya looked at the box on her table.
“That’s the problem.”
After the call, she turned off her phone.
For nine minutes.
Then she turned it back on because she had two ongoing provenance reviews and pretending her life had stopped would not make the invoices disappear.
There were forty-three new notifications.
One came from Claire Morgan.
I hope this is all right. I got your number from the client registration file. I have not shared it. Security preserved the relevant footage. Mr. Vale’s counsel asked for a copy. I told them we would only release it through proper channels. Mrs. Vale left separately shortly after you did.
Below that was another message.
Also, you left the auction catalog. I have it if you want it.
Maya stared at that one longer than the first.
Her life had been rearranged and someone was keeping track of a catalog.
It helped, strangely.
She wrote back.
Please keep it for now. Thank you.
At nine-thirty, someone knocked.
Janelle looked toward the door.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
The knocking came again.
Maya walked over and checked the peephole.
A man in a dark suit stood in the hallway.
She stepped back.
“Who is it?”
“Daniel Mercer. Counsel for Richard Vale.”
Janelle mouthed, Absolutely not.
Maya opened the door with the chain still attached.
Daniel Mercer appeared to be in his late forties, with rain on one shoulder and an expression that suggested he had spent his career entering rooms where nobody wanted him.
“Ms. Reyes?”
“Yes.”
“I apologize for coming without an appointment.”
“Then why did you?”
“Mr. Vale asked me to deliver something personally.”
“No.”
The lawyer blinked.
“I haven’t told you what it is.”
“I don’t want money.”
“It isn’t money.”
“I don’t want a nondisclosure agreement.”
“It isn’t that either.”
Maya waited.
May you like
Daniel held up a sealed envelope.
“His contact information. A short letter. Nothing else.”
