CHAPTER 2: THE MICROSCOPIC LIE
All eyes turned to me.
Five hundred people. Investors, critics, journalists. They were staring at Marcus Thorne, the boy wonder.
“Marcus?” Elias’s tone had lost all friendliness. “Is this true?”
I forced a brittle laugh. “Mr. Thorne, please. This is… absurd. I’ve conducted extensive chemical analysis. Provenance is ironclad. Clearly a prank by some activist group.”
“Then prove it,” she challenged.
Unyielding.
“I don’t have to prove anything to a teenager crashing a private event,” I sneered, sweat sliding down my spine.
“If you’re so sure,” Elias said, stepping forward, “then entertain us. Check it. Right now.”
I looked at my boss, the Director of Operations, standing in the wings. He looked like he was having a stroke. He gave me a tiny nod. Fix this.
“Fine,” I said. “If it will put our valued clients at ease.”
I pulled my jeweler’s loupe from my breast pocket. It was a Zeiss, the best money could buy. I walked over to the painting. It stood on a golden easel, bathed in spotlight. It was beautiful. A chaotic swirl of blacks and dark reds. I loved this painting.
I knelt down to the bottom right corner, exactly where the girl had pointed.
I brought the loupe to my eye. I switched on the tiny LED light attached to the lens.
I magnified the surface 10x. Then 20x.
I was looking for the jagged, uneven granular structure of natural cadmium red, which Vane used exclusively. It should look like tiny, crushed rocks under magnification.
My breath caught in my throat.
The pigment wasn’t jagged. It was smooth. Uniform. Perfect spheres of color.
Synthetic.
My heart stopped. Literally missed a beat.
She was right.
The paint was modern. It was high-quality, expensive artist paint, but it was acrylic-based synthetic polymer. It wasn’t oil.
The painting wasn’t from 1965. It was… new.
I felt like I was falling. How could I have missed this? I had tested samples from the center, from the top left. Why hadn’t I tested this corner?
I realized then that the “restoration” notes I had received mentioned a “minor touch-up” in this area. I had assumed the restorer used vintage-appropriate materials. I hadn’t checked.
I was an amateur. A fraud.
I lowered the loupe. The room was spinning.
“Well?” Elias asked.
I looked at the girl. She wasn’t gloating. She looked sad.
I looked at the crowd. If I lied now, I could maybe get away with it for tonight. The sale would go through. I’d get my money. But if Elias tested it later—and he would—I would go to prison for fraud.
If I told the truth, my career was over.
I stood up. My knees felt like jelly.
“I…” My voice failed. I cleared my throat. “There appears to be… an anomaly.”
The room erupted. It wasn’t a gasp this time; it was a roar. People were shouting. Elias turned purple.
“An anomaly?” Elias roared. “Is it fake or not?”
“It requires further testing,” I stammered.
“It’s a fake!” the girl shouted again. “My dad painted it! He painted it two weeks ago!”
The guards released her. There was no point holding her now. The damage was done.
I walked to the edge of the stage and jumped down. I ignored my boss screaming my name. I walked straight up to the girl.
Up close, she smelled like turpentine and cheap laundry detergent. She had paint under her fingernails.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice hollow.
“I’m Maya,” she said. “And you just tried to sell my dad’s practice canvas for twelve million dollars.”
“Where is he?” I grabbed her arm. “Where is the artist?”
“He’s dead,” she said flatly. “He died three days ago. That’s why I’m here. I’m not letting you vultures profit off the thing that killed him.”
“Marcus!” My boss was marching toward us, security in tow. “Get to my office. Now!”
“I need to talk to her,” I said.
“You’re fired, Marcus!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth. “Get out of my building! You’re finished!”
I looked at Maya. She was my only lifeline. The only person who knew the truth.
“Run,” I whispered to her.
“What?”
“They’re going to call the police,” I said fast. “They’ll arrest you for trespassing and probably fraud. If you want to tell your story, we have to leave. Now.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
We turned and ran. Not toward the exit, but toward the service elevator. I swiped my badge—it still worked, thank god—and the doors slid open.
As the doors closed, I saw Elias Thorne screaming at my boss, and the security guards running toward us.
We hit ‘B2’—the garage.
I had just lost my job, my reputation, and $12 million. And I was trapped in an elevator with a teenager who had just destroyed my life.
