Much stronger. I’d violated his privacy. I knew he would never hurt me, I trusted him completely—but my trauma response wasn’t so convinced.
“Pinky swear?” He grinned and held out his pinky finger.
I sighed in relief as my anxiety started to subside and quickly squeezed his pinky with mine, kissed them, and nodded. “Pinky swear. I wouldn’t have come in here but I saw…something.”
He nodded toward the wall. “This is FBI work. Confidential.”
“Is this the case you’re struggling to crack?” I pointed to the note. “With the line across the throat?”
Ry looked me over like he was considering how much to confide in me. He dropped his arms and stepped inside, flicked on another lamp and stood by my side as the whole wall lit up in bright light.
“Forgeries and counterfeit money. They seem to be connected, and there’s also a slew of murders going along with this guy’s agenda.” He grunted like he hated the forger.
I loved that he trusted me with those small details. I knew from how cagey Hunter was about his work even a tiny amount of information was dangerous in the wrong people’s hands.
I tugged at Brax’s arm and led him closer to the blown-up ten dollar bill. “What do you know about this? This white scratch?”
“Calling card of Monet.”
“Monet?” I searched the wall. “There’s no Monet here.”
“Just a code name we gave the forger. He’s an artist.” He shrugged like it made any sense at all.
“But there’s no…Monet? Why call him Monet? The only impressionist he’s done here is Degas—”
“We’re stupid FBI agents, forgive us.” He threw an arm around my shoulder and pulled me in tight to his side, then pointed at the board. “Why did you want to know about the scratch?”
“Because I’ve seen it before.”
He stiffened and slowly looked down at me, stupefied. “You’ve seen it before?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it before.” I laughed and nodded.
“What do you mean, you’ve seen it before?” He pulled away a little and peered at me like he was suspicious of my confidence. “Hunter showed you something?”
“No! I’ve seen it before in art. On the streets.” I stabbed the line across Jefferson’s throat and then on one of Degas’ ballerinas.
Ryland pulled away and held the edge of his desk. “On the streets.”
“A street artist I knew, he did these amazing portraits of people for cash. Like a busker. He’d do drawings at Franklin Square Park and sometimes he’d do big chalk art drawings of classical paintings, but he’d always mark his work with a nick on the necks. It was like his signature.” I spoke fast and gestured a lot, hoping I made sense.
Ry’s jaw dropped comically and he blinked at me. I couldn’t help but want to jump him, standing there with his chest bare and a stunned look on his face. Instead, I slapped his arm with the back of my hand and pointed to the picture of Venus.
“This one, I don’t think it’s his.”
“We found it with a bunch of his counterfeit work.”
I shrugged. It didn’t mean much, surely. “I still don’t think it’s his work.”
“Because there’s no line on the neck?” He frowned.
“The details of the drapery are off. He’s better than to miss that detail.”
“Okay.” Ry stood up and ran his hands over his face as he sighed heavily. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know.”
I beamed at him, took a seat in his oversized chair and put my feet up on the desk. “Hit me.”
He chuckled and took a small recording device from the top drawer, hit record, and set it between us. He looked me over with his arms crossed on top of his gorgeous chest that I just wanted to bury myself in, and nodded for me to go ahead.
“I knew this guy, Will, about um…eight years ago. Maybe nine? No, eight. I was sixteen and he was probably in his early twenties, maybe late teens if he’d been living rough for a while.” We all aged a little too quickly on the streets.
“What did he look like?”
“Creepy,” I laughed. “He gave me the heebie-jeebies sometimes. I don’t know, I guess it wasn’t because of how he looked. He had a shaved head, tattoos, a goatee—but they were really in fashion back then. Boring-looking white guy with a busted nose. And he had a scar!”
“Where?” Ryland picked up a pad and paper, as though the recording wouldn’t be enough.
“There.” I pointed to the evidence wall.
Ryland frowned. “His neck?”
“Right. Will told me he put the line