There are several pieces of notepaper covered in the type of chicken scratch handwriting that is a headache to read, plus some news articles. One showing four paintings catches my eye. I haven’t seen them before, but I’d bet my meager savings that this is The Four. I try to decipher one of the handwritten pages, but it’s useless, the scribbles and diagrams meaningless.
My head snaps up as I hear voices outside, followed by a key turning in the lock. I race to my bedroom, feeling bad that I’m hiding these pages from Dad, but my brain is two steps ahead. What if there’s something here that can help me unravel the mystery of where the painting has been all these years?
“Fliss, you awake?” Dad calls down the hallway.
I shove the entire bundle under the elastic band round my notebook and slide it under my bed, but not before I get a glimpse of the printed line at the top of each piece of notepaper.
From the desk of Professor Timothy Williams
FOUR
“Fliss?” Dad’s voice echoes downthe hallway as I leave my room. I steel myself as he clocks the bits of plaster on the floor and the portrait in its new spot, facing the wall. “Fliss, is everything okay? What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, slightly out of breath as I approach him. He turns the painting round to face him. He’s flanked by Kim and a bespectacled Black man in a very dapper suit. “There was some kind of power cut, and then the painting fell off the wall. I was asleep and…” I shake my head, forcing myself to make sense. “The painting is fine, but the card at the back of the frame is coming away. I think it was too heavy for that little nail in the wall, that’s all.”
“But you’re okay?” Kim asks as Dad and the man study the frame.
“I’m fine.” I brush off her concern, though my heart is still pounding a little. “Is it damaged?” I ask.
“No, no,” the man says, opening a monogrammed leather bag that makes him look like a painting doctor. He must be the appraiser. “It doesn’t appear to have been harmed, and this cardwill be removed eventually, I’m sure. It’s the disturbing anomalies I’m really looking for—”
“Yes, it’s fine, Fliss.” Dad cuts across him, finally looking up at me. “It didn’t hurt you, did it? When it fell?”
“No, I was asleep.” I don’t mention that I probably bled on it a bit. “It just woke me up.”
“Oh, good.” His attention drifts back to the portrait. Good talk, Dad.
Kim holds a paper bag aloft. “Your dad said you’d like the penne Alfredo. Are you hungry?”
My stomach rumbles at the thought of food. “I’m starving, actually.”
“Let’s leave them to it, then. I’ll stick it in the oven and warm it up for you.”
I follow Kim into the kitchen and snag one of Dad’s Diet Cokes from the fridge as she shoves a foil container in the oven. The scent of garlic fills the air, and my stomach rumbles again. Kim grins at me, and I feel my cheeks flush, so I press the can to them before popping the tab and taking a long, crisp drink.
“It will only take a couple of minutes. The restaurant made it just before we left,” she says. I watch her fill the kettle. “Tea?” she asks, removing a selection of mismatched mugs and a glass teapot from the cupboard next to the fridge.
“No thanks.” I mull over the papers I just found as she busies herself, finally pouring two mugs and taking them out to the hall. It seems weird that Professor Williams was not only keeping the find of the century to himself but was also writing secretnotes about it andhidingthem. I wait until Kim returns before trying for information. “Kim?”
“Hmm?” She absentmindedly opens the oven door, and a blast of hot air makes her back away. “Every time,” she sighs, picking up a tea towel from the counter and removing the tray that holds my dinner. I let her dish it out, thinking maybe she’ll answer a little more honestly if she’s distracted.
“Do you know much about Professor Williams?” I ask.
Kim pauses, her back to me as she spoons steaming pasta into a wide bowl. “No,” she says, rooting in another cupboard and producing some salt and pepper shakers in the shape of birds. They’re cute. “Your dad never mentioned him until he was offered this new job. Why?”
“No reason,” I say as she places the bowl in front of me. Maybe Dad will have more of an idea what Professor Williams was like. “This looks so good! Thank you.”
“And here’s the garlic bread.” Kim puts the plate of buttery flatbread on the table, and I almost groan at the smell.
I pick up my fork as she sits across from me, her hands wrapped round a chipped blue mug. I swallow a mouthful of creamy sauce, and we sit in almost comfortable silence for a couple of minutes as I make short work of the pasta and Kim scrolls through her phone.
Snippets of muffled conversation filter in from the hallway, mainly phrases I don’t fully understand, like “veracity” and “carbon dating.” I keep one ear open and tear off the corners of the garlic bread to mop up the sauce, leaving the middle for last—it’salways the best bit. I lick garlic butter from my thumb and decide to ask Kim the question nagging at me.
“Why do you think he didn’t tell anyone he had the painting?” Kim looks up from her phone. “Professor Williams, I mean. Dad practically jumped for joy when he saw it, and then he rang the gallery right away. Why didn’t Professor Williams do the same?”
“You know, I’ve been wondering the same thing.” She sighs, putting her phone on the table. “Part of me thinks that he could have had it for years. Maybe he acquired it in a less than legal manner—the art world has a history of corruption in that sense. But another part of me thinks he was only in possession of it more recently. Who knows, he may not have been in his right mind before he died.”
She pauses, and I know she thinks she’s said too much in front of me, like I’m a kid. I stay quiet in the hope she will continue, and eventually she does, but she lowers her voice so Dad can’t hear from the hallway. “I think he struggled after his wife passed. Your dad told me that some of the other professors implied that he wasn’t keeping up with his workload, that he was coming in looking unkempt, that kind of thing.” She shrugs and raises her eyebrows at me. “Or maybe the painting really is cursed.”