Wyatt looked around the kitchen. Apparently he was wondering about the dog, too, because he asked, “Where’s Storm?”
And then they heard the growling. It was coming from the hallway, toward the front part of the house. Tess caught Wyatt’s eye, and the two of them walked toward the low and menacing sound. They found Storm standing at the doorway to the drawing room, facing inside, teeth bared, a terrifying growl rumbling through the air. Tess’s heart jumped into her throat as she hurried to the dog’s side and peered into the room.
She gasped at what she saw. The wall safe was wide open, and the panel that hid it from view had been torn off and flung across the room. The paintings were laid out on the floor, side by side. As though they had been carefully placed there by a curator.
The room went ice cold. Tess could feel it penetrating her thick sweater until it reached her skin. Storm began to bark and reared up on his back legs, jumping and biting at something unseen in the air. He’d twirl around midair and jump again, barking all the while. An angry, raging-dog ballet.
She looked at Wyatt with her mouth agape.
Wyatt walked toward the dog with his arms outstretched, his palms open. “Easy, boy,” he said, his voice calm and soothing. “Easy, Storm.”
Storm stopped the jumping and crept to each of the paintings in turn, sniffing them all. His ears were pricked. On high alert.
Wyatt’s eyes followed Storm. “What is this?” he said, his voice low, as though he didn’t want whoever—or whatever—had done it to hear. “What are these?”
So much for keeping the existence of the paintings a secret, Tess thought. She stepped gingerly into the room, wincing, not quite wanting to see if the paintings themselves had been marred or defaced or destroyed in some way. She took a deep breath and looked.
The paintings were intact. She let out the breath she was holding in one great sigh. She could feel the relief radiating off her shoulders.
“Are these . . . ?” Wyatt’s words evaporated as he stared at the paintings.
“I found them in the studio,” she admitted. “After we opened it up. We’re assuming—my parents and I—that they were painted by Sebastian Bell.”
All at once, she had the feeling again of eyes boring into the back of her skull.
“Wyatt,” Tess said, slowly. “These paintings were in the wall safe when we left for lunch.”
They locked eyes for one long and terrible moment that seemed to last forever. The room, the paintings, even the dog’s growling dimmed and faded into watercolor. Only their eyes, locked together, were crystal clear.
“Who else has the combination?” he said.
She shook her head. “Only my dad,” she said, her voice wavering. “In Florida. And it’s one of those Wi-Fi-enabled locks that he can change from his smartphone. So, it never remains the same for too long.”
Wyatt slid his phone from his back pocket. “We should call the police. Whoever did this might still be in the house.”
Tess shook her head. “No,” she said, the words coming out harsher than she meant them. The intensity of it surprised her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “No, Wyatt. Let’s you and I and Storm check the house to see if there has been a break-in. He’ll know if someone is hiding. I don’t want anyone else in here. Not even the police.”
Wyatt’s expression melted from concern into confusion.
“These are undiscovered works by my grandfather,” Tess said. “The world doesn’t know they exist. I told only my son and my parents that I found them. I got strict orders from my dad to keep all of this under wraps. Nobody else was supposed to know about them.”
“Why?” Wyatt asked.
Tess stared at him, open mouthed, for a moment. “Do you have any idea what they’re worth?”
Clarity on his face, then. “Of course. Millions. Now I get it.”
“When I told my dad about finding the paintings, he instructed me to put them in the safe right away. He absolutely does not want any hint of this to get out. It could be—”
“Dangerous,” Wyatt continued her thought, nodding. “For you. I absolutely agree. Nobody can know about these until you—well, I don’t know what one does at a time like this. Get them into the right hands, I suppose. But, Tess . . .” he continued, staring at the paintings, “something doesn’t make sense, here.”
Nothing much had made sense since they had opened the studio, she thought.
“What?”