at him with all the shock that statement deserves. ‘What?’
‘Dad kept the map here at The Haven,’ he tells me, void of emotion. ‘Mum found it and wasn’t happy. She said it should be somewhere secure and took it upon herself to take it to the bank before Dad could stop her. Someone went into the back of her car at the lights. Pushed her onto the crossroads.’
I don’t like his vacant expression. Or what he’s just said, because after everything I’ve just heard, my mind is spinning with where this is leading.
‘She didn’t stand a chance.’
I flinch. It would be so wrong for me to cry when Becker’s forcing himself to keep it together.
‘When Dad got her belongings back from the hospital, the map was gone.’
My stomach bottoms out, and I gawp at him as he watches me, totally stoic. So many questions are whirling around in my head, but I’m not sure which one to fire at him first. Plus, I need to be able to string a sentence together, and I’m incapable of speech right now. But my vision seems to have become hypersensitive, and I can see with frightening clarity what’s lingering behind Becker’s angel eyes. All of that anger and hurt, resentment and turmoil, it’s all there and it’s more potent than ever before.
‘The Wilsons,’ I only manage those two words, but it’s all I need. Becker nods his head, and as if I need the horror story to continue, he goes on.
‘I know it was Brent’s father. He killed my mum and took the map.’
‘How do you know?’ I whisper, worried.
Becker watches me closely, doubling my worry, because right now he’s monitoring my face for a reaction to what he’s going to say next.
I step back, swallowing. ‘How?’ I ask. I’m ready.
‘Because my dad stole it back.’
Or not ready. ‘Oh God.’ I grab the nearby clock for support, but my evident shock doesn’t hold him back. He’s on a roll now, bombarding me with it all.
‘After Mum died, Dad may as well have been dead, too. He was ruined. Consumed by guilt. The police put it down to a tragic accident. Case closed. They refused to look into any of the evidence we gave them.’ His lip curls at the mention of the police. ‘Dad went away for a while. Said he needed to be alone. That’s what he told me and Gramps, anyway.’
I look at him in silent question.
‘He followed Brent’s father to Florence.’ He speaks with a hatred that’s terrifying. ‘Why do you think Brent’s father was in Florence, princess?’
Fuck me, I’m shaking, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. ‘Because the missing piece of map includes Italy. Florence is in Italy. The garden of San Marco was in Florence.’ I mumble it all mindlessly. ‘And the Garden of San Marco is where the Magnificent discovered Michelangelo’s talent for sculpting. Brent’s father was taking an educated guess without the missing piece of the map.’ Good bloody God, this is getting more real by the word. ‘But there’s Rome, there’s Bologna, there’s Venice. Michelangelo travelled with his commissions.’
Becker nods his agreement. ‘I told you. They’re amateurs. I spent three years between the three cities and found nothing. Dad tracked Brent’s father to Florence. Found him chasing his tail. He stole the map back and posted it to me.’
I drop my eyes to the carpet, trying to rummage through the chaos in my mind, trying to get it all straight. That missing piece, so small but so significant. Head of a Faun can’t be found without it, if it even exists. It might not exist. Chances are it doesn’t. But only the missing piece can clear up the mystery. I consider, just for a moment, whether I should tell Becker that I know where he’s hiding the map. The words tickle the tip of my tongue, but I suck them back. His mother and father died because of that map. I can’t blame him for wanting to keep it secret and hidden, if only for his own sanity.
‘That was the last we heard from Dad,’ Becker exhales and takes his fingers under his glasses, rubbing into his eye sockets. ‘Then the Italian authorities found him.’
I blink my wide eyes, my mouth drying up. ‘Mugging gone wrong,’ I whisper, everything falling into place. I need to sit down. My legs are wobbly, and my head could explode with information overload. Stumbling across his office, I land in a chair with a thud. The