I frown as uneasiness runs through me: he’s here to tell me something.
There’s more.
Did he sleep with his artist?
My heart begins to race as I brace myself. Somehow, I don’t think our reunion is going to stay happy.
We walk into the living area and he turns toward me. “Sit down, baby, I need to tell you something.”
I drop to the couch without question.
Thump, thump, thump sounds my pulse in my ears.
He goes to his overnight bag and takes out a large, yellow envelope and passes it to me. “Images of Harriet Boucher.”
“Who?” I frown.
“The artist I was looking for, these are the images that were sent to me from the private investigator.”
“Why would I want to see who she is, haven’t you hurt me enough with her?” I spit.
“Open it,” he demands.
“I don’t—”
“Open it,” he barks.
I open the envelope and pull out the large A4-sized photographs, and I frown.
It’s Elanor.
I flick through them—image after image of Elanor. Black and white, color, different locations.
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
He passes me a white envelope. “These are the paintings I have bought at auction.”
I screw up my face; what the fuck is he going on about? “Elliot, I don’t—”
“Open it,” he barks.
Jeez, psycho . . . I open the envelope and my eyes widen. I flick through the images, confusion takes me over. I know these paintings . . . I did these paintings.
My eyes rise to meet his.
“All those years, all that time . . . it was you,” he whispers.
Goosebumps scatter up my spine.
He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, takes my hands in his. “It was you who was calling me through those paintings.”
My eyes well with tears as my world spins on its axis.
“It’s always been you,” he whispers. “I knew in my heart that I was called to them for a reason. It’s you, Kate, you are the reason.”
I drop my head, overwhelmed. “I don’t . . . how . . . I mean . . .” I look up at him. “How did this happen?” I whisper. “I don’t understand.”
“Brad and I have pieced this together.”
“Brad?” I frown. “Brad knows about this?”
He nods and leans up and kisses me tenderly as if to soften the blow, but I can’t feel it. I’m numb.
“Elanor cleared out your parents’ house to hide a crime.”
My eyes hold his.
“She had been selling your old paintings from the attic at auctions using a pseudonym. And she knew that once you and Brad cleared out your parents’ house, her crime would be discovered.”
Horror dawns.
“What she didn’t count on, was that one particular art collector, me, would become obsessed with the paintings and hire a private investigator to find her.”
My chest rises and falls as I scramble for air.
“And she would have gotten away with it, too. If she hadn’t got greedy and wanted the fame that my name delivered.”