The Chase. Vanessa Fewings

the pressure-sensitive marble floor tiles, finicky laser detectors and the temperature monitor set to go off after five minutes.

      He’d burned through a few minutes when he must have looked up at the sky and spotted an enormous squawking raven perched on the end of the glass hole that he’d taken precious time to saw through.

      Had he experienced a jolt of fear before returning to the Zen-like calm he must have possessed to do a job like this? Somewhere, I’d read a bird’s eyesight was sensitive to ultraviolet light. Something about visual pigments in their retinal cones. I’d stored this in the “interesting stuff of no current value” corner of my brain.

      But for this case it couldn’t have been more vital.

      Because there were two things I knew for sure. First, the ultraviolet flashlight strapped to his utility belt, standard equipment for any self-respecting thief, had been on and had caught that raven’s attention. Second, that very bird had dived straight toward the invisible layers of those state-of-the-art motion detectors.

      Opening my eyes, my fingers traced the sample of black feathers found at the scene, proving he’d tried to prevent the bird from landing.

      The only consolation was the raven had been found alive and happily perched atop a whimsical 1889 still life: Vase with Fourteen Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh, worth millions.

      Though minutes before, there had been the inescapable mayhem of a swinging climbing rope, flying feathers and scrambling hands to rein in the chaos.

      Basically, he was fucked.

      And he’d still gotten away with a Titian.

      Closing the file, my heartbeat quickened with a fierce resolve to see this case closed and have this heist go down in history as the one that got him caught.

       1

      One week earlier

      She’ll be safe here.

      Since I’d first made the decision to leave her at The Otillie, I’d been reciting this mantra to reassure myself. I can even remember what I was wearing that early winter morning when I’d first set eyes on my beloved Madame Rose.

      To me, my Madame Rose was so much more than a painting. She represented my childhood, my innocence, my strongest connection to my father. Rose had been a woman of her day—my father had told me this as he’d raised his bidding paddle and with one sweep of his wrist he’d secured Madame Rose Récamier as ours, outbidding every other art collector at Sotheby’s. Adding another masterpiece to his already vast personal gallery back when I’d called Kensington home.

      Zara, within the texture lies the truth, he’d told me as he nudged me closer to the canvas. Can you see?

      As I’d taken in—or at least tried with the perception of a ten-year-old—the brilliance of that French artist on that century-aged painting, I’d sensed life would never be the same. I’d known in the depths of my soul art would always be my one true love.

      Tonight, I’d been so fazed about coming here that I’d forgotten to wear a coat that would have offset the chill of a London autumn and the cold temperature the gallery was kept at to preserve its treasures within.

      Art galleries were quiet places with hushed whispers as respectful visitors paid homage to the genius of artists who’d left their indelible mark. Many of these painters had languished in poverty even after giving so much. As a child I’d always wanted to travel back in time to watch them work and tell them their talent had been worth all they’d sacrificed.

      My stilettos clicked along the marble uncomfortably loudly as I neared Madame Rose Récamier. She’d hung in my bedroom and watched over me for years.

      Stepping closer, my gaze roamed over her, marveling at those pristine strokes giving Rose a stunning realism.

      I gave the softest sigh.

      The year was 1803 when Jacques Momar had captured a moment in time with this Parisian socialite and, as I trailed my fingers through my auburn locks, I recalled how I’d wanted to be her. Chestnut irises, we had that in common, but her fiery gaze reflected a life of daring—one she’d chosen to live on her terms. Madame Rose Récamier had been known for her love of neoclassical fashion and her controversial interest in politics. She’d stunned Paris with her tenacity. Her reputation to enamor with her smart wit and intelligence had been expressed so beautifully as she reclined on that satin chaise lounge, her head thrown back and her gaze held firmly on the artist Monsieur Momar. In her expression there was love. As time went on I’d realized that look proved an affair had transpired between them. The kind of passion I’d only ever read about.

      I saw something I’d never noticed before—uncertainty—the emotion starkly vivid and painfully real.

      In his will my father had left Madame Récamier to me. And now I was leaving her here.

      “She’s haunting,” Clara whispered, shaking me from my daydream. It was just like her to know I needed a few moments alone with Rose to say goodbye.

      It felt comforting having my best friend here.

      No matter how many months went by without seeing Clara, it felt like mere minutes had passed between us. She’d always come through for me, and I for her.

      Her diamante-crystal, halter-neck dress made her look gorgeous, as always. She had a couple of inches on me and her thick blond curls were a contrast to my long auburn hair. Her high cheekbones were a reflection of the confidence that had helped her succeed as an advertising photographer. Her voluptuousness was a contrast to my smaller curvy figure. “Rubinesque,” she’d called herself, which matched her vibrant personality, and her bright eyes and warm smile were always welcome in my world that always seemed more complicated than hers.

      As if sensing I needed it, she came over now to give me a hug. “She’s beautiful.” Clara squeezed me into her side.

      “First time I saw her I was wearing my favorite floral dress.” I rested my head on Clara’s shoulder for a moment. “Red shoes. I loved those shoes.”

      “Oh, Zara, this was a good decision.”

      “Yes. She’s meant to be here.”

      She paused for a moment and studied me as though being careful with her words. “What about the others?”

      The three other paintings we’d saved that night...

      Flames rising from our house and licking the air with those monstrous oranges and reds; a hellish glow...

      The stench of toxic smoke in my clothes. My hair. My skin. My doll lost to the flames.

      Stubbornly, I shook my head, not wanting to remember anything more about that night. “There was always this sense we were protecting Madame Rose by hiding her away.”

      Now it was time to step away.

      Let it all go. And move on.

      “You okay?” came Clara’s reassurance.

      I nodded to let her know I was.

      It was behind me now, all that grief of dealing with the complex issues of my father’s estate and those endless meetings with softly spoken solicitors where coffee was my only friend. And those journalists who’d begged for a scoop on what plans I had to take the Leighton family legacy into the twenty-first century.

      I had no real plans for anything, not really.

      Other than settling into my new career. Moving on felt cathartic.

      Clara tutted. “Dreadful thing.”

      Shaken back into the room, I asked, “What is?”

      “No one’s reckless enough to steal from a gallery. Not with all this.” She peered up at one of the discreet cameras.

      She was referring to that theft