The Gap in the File

The provenance file for Lot 47 was thinner than it should have been for a piece worth six figures, and thinnest exactly where it mattered.

Priya spread the documents across the light table. Bills of sale from 1889 through 1930, tidy and complete. Then a gap — 1931 to 1933 — with a single line in a clerk's careful hand: Item location: family custody. No further detail.

"That's the gap," I said. "That's the eighteen months Agatha was supposedly caught with it."

"If she'd been caught with it," Priya said, "there'd be a police report. An insurance claim. Something. This just says the family had it the whole time."

Before I could answer, the office door opened without a knock. The man who came in wore a suit that fit too well to be anything but expensive, and a smile that had clearly opened doors his whole career.

"Gideon Pruitt," he said. "I act for the Thorncastle family. I understand there's some confusion about Lot Forty-Seven's history."

"No confusion," I said. "Just questions nobody's answered yet."

"Family history is complicated, Miss Adeyemi." He knew my name already; I hadn't told him. "Old stories get exaggerated in the retelling. I'd hate to see anyone embarrassed chasing one." He set a card on the light table, precisely centered. "Call me directly, won't you? Before you go digging anywhere else. I can clarify a great deal, privately."

He left as smoothly as he'd arrived. Priya picked up the card between two fingers like it might be contagious.

"Privately," she repeated. "Sure."

I didn't call him. I went home, made tea I didn't drink, and fell asleep with the photograph still in my hand.

My phone woke me at 1:14 a.m. One new voicemail, number withheld. I played it twice before I understood I'd heard it right.

"Leave Lot Forty-Seven alone," said a voice I didn't recognize, flat and unhurried. "Some doors were shut for a reason. Leave them shut."