PART 3
CHAPTER 7: THE MANHUNT
The city was waking up, but for us, the nightmare was in full swing.
Sirens wailed in every direction. The NYPD had an APB out for a “kidnapper and arsonist.” That was me.
“We can’t take a cab,” I said, pulling my collar up as we ducked into a subway entrance at Queens Plaza. “They’ll track the plates or the credit card. We have to take the train.”
“There are cameras everywhere,” Maya hissed, keeping her head down.
“Not in the tunnels,” I said. “And at 5:00 AM, the cars are full of construction workers and early shifters. We blend in.”
We hopped the turnstile. I felt like a criminal. I suppose, technically, I was one now.
We squeezed into the back of an E train heading to Manhattan. I stood in the corner, shielding Maya with my body. My phone—the burner—buzzed again.
I checked TikTok.
12 Million Views.
The video was the number one trending topic in the world. #TheEclipseLie was beating #MetGala.
People were dissecting the footage. Chemistry professors were dueting the video, confirming Maya’s science about the paint. Lawyers were weighing in on the legality of the sale.
But then I saw the comments on a new video posted by a news outlet.
“He kidnapped her! That poor girl.” “No, watch her face in the video! She’s not scared of him. She’s filming!”
The public was split. We were losing the narrative.
The train screeched to a halt at Lexington Avenue-53rd Street.
“We need to switch to the 6,” I whispered. “Get us closer to the Upper East Side.”
As the doors opened, I made eye contact with a transit cop standing on the platform.
He looked at me. He looked at the soot on my face. He looked at the girl in the grey hoodie.
His eyes widened. He reached for his radio.
“Run!” I yelled.
We bolted. We didn’t wait for the stairs; we sprinted up the broken escalator.
“Hey! Stop!” The cop was fast.
We burst out onto 3rd Avenue. The morning sun was blinding.
“Where do we go?” Maya panted. “The auction house is twenty blocks away!”
“We can’t outrun a radio,” I said, looking around frantically.
A delivery truck for a bakery was idling at a red light. The back door was slightly ajar.
“In,” I ordered.
I boosted Maya up and scrambled in after her, pulling the roll-up door down just as a squad car screamed past the intersection.
We collapsed on stacks of flour sacks. The truck lurched forward.
“This is insane,” Maya laughed nervously. She was shaking. “We’re in a bread truck.”
“We’re almost there,” I said, checking the GPS on the burner phone. “We need to get to the loading dock before 8:00 AM. If Elias leaves, or if the police arrest me before I can prove it, Kroll wins.”
“Marcus,” Maya said, her voice quiet. “Why are you doing this? You could have just run away. Left me.”
“I spent my whole life looking at fake things,” I said, looking at her. “Fake art, fake people, fake smiles. You’re the first real thing I’ve seen in ten years. I’m not letting them burn you.”
The truck hit a pothole. We were in the city.
I peeked out the back. We were on Madison Avenue.
“This is it,” I said. “Jump on three.”
CHAPTER 8: THE $12 MILLION TRUTH
We rolled out of the truck at 7:55 AM, hitting the pavement hard. We were bruised, dirty, and exhausted.
Christie’s loading dock was a fortress. Security guards were everywhere.
But standing right in the middle of them, checking his watch, was Elias Thorne.
He was surrounded by his own private security detail—massive men who looked like they ate rocks for breakfast.
And standing opposite him, looking calm and smug, was Victor Kroll and the Director.
“Mr. Thorne!” I shouted, sprinting across the street.
“Freeze!” A police officer stepped out from the side, gun drawn. “Hands in the air!”
“Wait!” Elias barked. His voice was like a whip crack.
The billionaire stepped forward, pushing the officer’s gun arm down gently. “I invited him.”
“He’s a fugitive, sir,” the officer said.
“He’s my consultant,” Elias said. He looked at me, then at Maya. “You look terrible, Marcus.”
“You should see the other guy,” I managed to wheeze. “The other guy is your painting.”
Kroll stepped forward. “Elias, this is ridiculous. This man is mentally unstable. He burned down a house last night. He kidnpped this child.”
“I’m not kidnapped!” Maya shouted, stepping next to me. “I’m the witness!”
“Open the vault,” Elias commanded the Director.
“Sir, we can’t—” the Director started.
“I have transferred twelve million dollars to your escrow account,” Elias said coldly. “Technically, I own that painting. Open. The. Vault.”
The Director looked at Kroll. Kroll’s eyes were cold, calculating. He gave a slight nod. Let them try.
We moved inside. The loading dock smelled of diesel and sawdust.
There it was. “The Eclipse.” Still sitting in its crate, ready for transport.
“Here is my chemist,” Elias said, pointing to a woman with a terrifyingly professional demeanor and a metal briefcase. “Dr. Aris.”
“She doesn’t need to do a full analysis,” Maya said, stepping up to the painting. She looked small next to the massive canvas. “Just do a solvent rub test on the bottom right corner.”
“A solvent rub?” Kroll laughed. “You want to damage a masterpiece with acetone?”
“If it’s oil paint from 1965, the acetone won’t hurt it if you’re gentle,” Maya said. “It’s cured. But if it’s fresh acrylic… it will dissolve.”
“Do it,” Elias ordered.
Dr. Aris put on gloves. She took a cotton swab and dipped it into a small bottle of solvent.
The room was silent. Even the police officers were watching.
Kroll shifted his weight. I saw his hand inch toward his pocket.
“Don’t even think about it,” one of Elias’s bodyguards murmured, stepping behind Kroll.
Dr. Aris approached the painting. She found the spot. The red corner.
She touched the swab to the canvas. She rubbed gently in a circular motion.
One second. Two seconds.
She pulled the swab away.
The tip was bright red.
And on the canvas, the paint had smeared, revealing the white primer beneath.
“It’s soluble,” Dr. Aris announced. “This is fresh acrylic. Maybe two weeks old.”
The room went silent.
“It’s a fake,” Elias whispered. He turned to the Director. “You sold me a fake.”
“I… I didn’t know!” the Director stammered, stepping back. “It was Marcus! He authenticated it!”
“And you tried to kill me to cover it up,” I said, my eyes locked on Kroll.
“Prove it,” Kroll snarled.
“I don’t have to,” I said. I pulled out my burner phone. “Maya, play the audio.”
Maya pressed play.
Kroll’s voice, tinny but unmistakable, filled the loading dock. “To the world, these are just the ramblings of a failed artist… The insurance payout on ‘The Eclipse’ will be processed by Monday.”
Kroll went pale.
“Officer,” Elias said, turning to the cop who had tried to arrest me. “I believe you’ve got the wrong man in cuffs.”
The police moved quickly. The Director attempted to flee but tripped over a crate. Kroll didn’t run; he just stared at me with pure hatred as they cuffed him.
“This isn’t over, Marcus,” Kroll spat.
“It is for you,” I replied.
