The Xenia Gallery Heist

Chapter One: The Morning After

I woke up this morning with my alarm clock ringing wildly in my ears. The sound was so sharp and piercing it felt like it was cutting directly through my skull. I reached out, hit snooze, and promised myself I would not fall asleep before the next buzz started.

My head was pounding. Last night at the club was way more fun than waking up at 6:00 AM to face the real world.

Groaning, I pulled myself out of bed and dragged my aching body into the shower, letting the water try to wash away the night before. I shuffled to the kitchen counter, brewed a strong cup of coffee, swallowed a couple of aspirin for the splitting headache, and packed my lunch.

On my way to work, my phone rang through the car speakers. I glanced at the screen: Jason, my partner.

I let out a heavy sigh and tapped the answer button, pressing the phone to my ear as I steered through the heavy morning traffic.

“Morning, Jason,” I rasped, my voice thick and dry from last night’s drinks.

“Hey! You sound rough,” Jason said, his voice entirely too loud and energetic for six-thirty in the morning. “Did you survive the night?”

“Barely,” I muttered, wincing as the bright morning sun hit my eyes through the windshield. “My head is pounding, but the aspirin is slowly kicking in. What’s up?”

“We just got a call from the Xenia art gallery,” Jason said, his tone shifting to business. “They had a break-in, and there’s a stolen painting we have to investigate.”

I frowned, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel. “I thought we worked murder cases and missing people. Not missing paintings.”

“I’ll meet you at the gallery and explain everything,” Jason replied.

Chapter Two: The Ghost and the Specialist

I managed to find a parking spot right next to Jason’s car. I scrambled out into the crisp morning air and walked over to where he was waiting near the grand entrance.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, welcome back,” Jason said, taking in my bloodshot eyes. “I hope you’re able to concentrate today.”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I insisted, rubbing my temples. “So, what’s the deal here?”

“We’re on the case for the stolen painting,” Jason explained, leaning in closer. “It was on loan to the museum from the Winston family. It’s valued at ten million dollars.”

“Wow,” I breathed, taking a sip of my lukewarm travel coffee. “That’s enough to retire on and move to a tropical beach somewhere.”

We walked inside the grand gallery and were immediately met with the chaos of an active investigation. Other detectives were pacing the floor, while the forensics team swept the area for latent fingerprints, dusting the empty display frame and snapping detailed photos of the crime scene.

For the next four hours, we dove straight into the groundwork—interviewing the cleaning staff, questioning the night-shift security guards, and taking a formal statement from the museum director. We looked for broken protocols, disgruntled employees, or any small detail that might have been missed.

The entry point was clean. The thief had come in through the roof, rappelled down, and seemed to have vanished right back out the exact same way. We replayed hours of high-definition surveillance footage, but the perpetrator moved like a shadow. Like a ghost. We didn’t have a single solid lead.

And that’s when he walked in.

He was a man who looked like he had been custom-carved by the gods. He had dark, sharp features, eyes that held an effortless intensity, and a slow, effortless smile capable of making your knees turn to water and your heart miss a beat.

Pull it together, I fiercely reprimanded myself, gripping my notepad a little tighter. Maybe this hangover is playing tricks on my brain.

Ever since my fiancé walked out on me, I had officially sworn off men. My life was strictly dedicated to my career, surviving the occasional girls’ night out, and keeping my heart under lock and key. Besides, even if he was breath-taking, there was no way a guy like that would ever be interested in someone like me.

The stranger walked straight past the yellow police tape, his eyes locking onto Jason and me.

“Good afternoon, detectives,” he said, his voice a smooth, low baritone that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. “My name is Blake Newman. I work for an art insurance company, and they sent me here to investigate the missing piece. Would you allow me to join your team so we can share intel on what happened?”

Chapter Three: The Ghost Painter

“Hello Blake, I’m Jason, and this is my partner, Kennedy,” Jason said, shaking his hand. “My chief told me you’d be meeting us here.”

“So, Blake,” I asked, purely out of professional curiosity—though mostly just to hear that smooth voice of his again—”why would an insurance company send their own man to investigate a missing painting?”

“Because we specialize exclusively in high-value fine art,” Blake explained, adjusting the cuffs of his fitted suit. “Before our company pays out a ten-million-dollar claim, we’re required to conduct a parallel investigation to verify every detail.”

“Fair enough,” Jason nodded, gesturing toward the centre of the hall. “Let’s sit down and go through what we have so far. Just please, don’t touch anything on the active scene.”

A subtle, amused smile touched Blake’s lips. “Jason, I assure you, I’ve been on plenty of crime scenes before. Tell me, have either of you heard of the Ghost Painter?”

Jason frowned. “The who now?”

“The Ghost Painter,” Blake repeated smoothly.

“No,” Jason said, crossing his arms. “Why is that important?”

“Because looking at this setup, the execution is unmistakable,” Blake said, walking slowly toward the perimeter tape without stepping over it. “The thief breached the glass skylight from the roof, used localized cold-smoke canisters to blind the heat-sensors and security cameras, and lifted the canvas clean off the frame. There have been six other cases over the last few years—at least one every twelve months—where masterworks were taken using this exact blueprint, only to be sold on the black market to private collectors.”

“So you’re saying we’re dealing with a serial art thief?” I asked, leaning against a display case. “The same person responsible for all seven hits?”

“That’s my assessment, yes.”

Jason turned to me, his detective instincts kicking into high gear. “Kennedy, call Alice at the precinct. Have her pull up every archived file on those previous cases. If this Ghost Painter left a signature in the past, I want it on my desk in twenty minutes.”

“On it,” I said, pulling out my phone and dialling Alice as I headed toward the glass exit doors.

Within minutes, the walkthrough was wrapped up, and we were heading back to the station. I glanced into my side-mirror as we pulled out of the gallery lot. Blake was trailing right behind us in a low, sleek, turquoise sports car that glistened under the bright afternoon sun. Behind the wheel, his dark eyes were hidden behind a pair of sharp sunglasses, looking like a high-fashion ad on wheels.

My head was still throbbing from last night, but I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering to our new consultant. Mr. Dreamy, I caught myself thinking, before quickly shaking the thought out of my head.

I was so lost in thought, staring at the reflection of that turquoise car, that I didn’t even realize Jason had pulled into the precinct parking lot until he killed the engine.

Chapter Four: Dead Ends and Hunches

We walked into the office and immediately dove into the mountain of paperwork Alice had pulled. Pages of incident reports, crime scene photos, and witness statements covered the table. I began piecing the puzzle together, pinning suspect photos, timelines, and floor plans to our glass whiteboard, jotting down notes in red marker as the picture started to form.

Then, buried in a folder from twelve months ago, I found a vital detail.

During a high-profile heist in the upper district, a night security guard had actually managed to discharge his weapon before the smoke canisters completely blinded him. He shot the Ghost Painter in the right leg.

A bullet wound meant an emergency room.

“Alice,” I called out, tapping the file. “I need every medical facility and urgent care clinic within a twenty-mile radius of this gallery on the night of October fourteenth, last year. Cross-reference their admissions with police reports for gunshot victims.”

Within thirty minutes, Alice handed me a list. The search had narrowed down to four potential individuals. We dug straight into their records, looking for red flags, missing police reports, or unexplained injuries.

We split up and tracked down all four.

Number 1 was Alberto—a local restaurant owner. His gunshot wound was tied to an armed robbery at his establishment, fully documented with an open police case. Besides, Alberto was heavily overweight and lacked the physical agility to rappel down from a high-vaulted glass ceiling.

Number 2 was Michelle—an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting in her neighbourhood. The incident was on record, and the tragedy had left her permanently in a wheelchair.

Number 3 was Mike—a heavy-duty mechanic. Broad-shouldered and possessing the physical strength required to navigate a roof harness, he looked promising on paper. But his alibi was airtight. He had been at an indoor shooting range with three witnesses when a rented firearm malfunctioned and misfired into his thigh.

That left Number 4: Rowan—a young college student studying electronic engineering.

We brought Rowan into the interrogation room. This time, I took the lead as the good cop while Jason stood by the wall, watching intently.

“Rowan,” I began gently, leaning forward on the cool metallic table. “Can you explain to me why you have a bullet wound on your leg, and what happened that night?”

Rowan swallowed hard, nervously picking at his fingernails. “My friends and I made a bonfire… One of them thought it would be funny to throw a handful of live bullets into the flames.”

“Until someone got hurt,” I said quietly. “Why didn’t you report it to the police?”

“I was scared he’d get locked up,” Rowan muttered, looking down. “He was my best friend.”

“He could have killed you, Rowan. And you covered for him?”

“He moved away to another city with his parents not long after the accident anyway,” he whispered.

“Where did he even get live ammunition?”

“His dad used to own a gun shop—the old one that used to be on Baker Road.”

I sat back in my chair, studying the young man in front of me. He was young, terrified, and fiercely loyal to a fault. But he also had an athletic build, the advanced engineering knowledge to bypass a museum’s electronic security system, and a stolen ten-million-dollar canvas would instantly secure his financial future.

“Where were you last night between 10:00 PM and 2:00 AM?” I asked, dropping my voice into a cold, direct tone.

Jason shot me a sharp, shocked glance from the corner of the room, startled by how bluntly I had thrown out the line of questioning.

Rowan blinked, wide-eyed. “I… I was at the university library with my girlfriend. We’re working on a group engineering project. We were there until closing with three other students. Am I in some kind of trouble, Detective?”

“Not yet,” I said, standing up. “We’ll verify your alibi. If it checks out, you’re free to go.”

I pushed open the heavy interrogation door, and Jason followed me out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind us.

“Kennedy! You can’t just throw out accusations like that without backing it up!” Jason snapped under his breath.

“Let’s just verify his library story first,” I replied calmly. “Check his student card scans, look at the door access logs, pull the security footage. I have a feeling we’re going to find him right where he said he was.”

A few minutes later, Alice walked down the hall holding a fresh printout. She looked up at us and nodded. “Rowan’s alibi is solid. Library key card scanned in at 8:15 PM and out at 2:30 AM. Video footage confirms he was at a study table the entire night.”

Jason crossed his arms, looking at me. “How did you know?”

“I had a hunch,” I said, rubbing my tired eyes.

“We don’t work on hunches, Kennedy!” Jason said, raising his voice slightly in frustration. “We work with cold, hard proof!”

I straightened my jacket and looked him dead in the eye. “Then I’ll go get your proof.”

Chapter Five: Gold Rings and Chief Orders

Around 8:00 PM, I finally closed my office door and shuffled out to my car. I was completely exhausted and couldn’t wait to just head home, kick off my shoes, and fall straight into bed.

Once home, I heated up some leftover pizza, took a quick shower, and crawled under the covers. My mind drifted off, and before I knew it, I was asleep—dreaming of a certain insurance investigator with a million-dollar smile.

At 3:00 AM, my phone blared from the nightstand. I reached out blindly and tapped answer.

“Hi…” my raspy, half-asleep voice echoed through the line.

“Hey. We have a murder,” Jason’s voice cut straight through the fog.

“I’m on my way.”

“Meet me back at the art gallery.”

I dropped the call, threw off the blankets, got dressed, grabbed my bag, and was out the door in five minutes flat.

When I pulled up to the gallery, the scene was already glowing under red and blue emergency lights. Forensic technicians were sweeping the floor for evidence. Jason was standing near the tape, holding two cups of coffee, looking as tired as I felt.

“Who’s our victim?” I asked, taking a coffee from him.

“The museum owner, Mr. Miller,” Jason said quietly, nodding toward the back hallway.

“Yesterday a ten-million-dollar painting, today a murder,” I muttered, taking a sip of the scalding black coffee. “Something about this feels completely off.”

I stepped past the yellow tape, slowly walking around the crime scene and taking in every little detail on the floor. As I turned near the edge of a velvet display rope, my shoe clicked against something metallic. I looked down.

Half-hidden under the base of a pillar was a ring. It was heavy, crafted from pure gold, and set with a massive, glittering diamond.

Expensive, I thought immediately. And familiar.

The name popped into my head instantly: The Winstons.

I pulled a clear evidence bag from my kit, carefully lifted the ring off the floor, and sealed it inside for prints.

“We need to bring the Winstons in for questioning,” I said, walking back over to Jason and holding up the bag. “I found this. My guess is it belongs to Mrs. Winston.”

Jason squinted at the bag. “Kennedy, it’s three in the morning. It’s a little early to drag prominent collectors out of bed, don’t you think?”

“Their heirloom painting was stolen yesterday, and I am almost positive this is Mrs. Winston’s wedding ring,” I argued. “I saw it on her left hand yesterday morning during our initial interview.”

Jason sighed, looking at his watch. “Okay, I’ll send a squad car over to park outside their estate and keep eyes on the property. We’ll call them in, in a few hours.”

After wrapping up at the gallery, we headed toward the precinct. Along the way, Jason decided it was the perfect time to pull into a drive-thru for an early morning breakfast. I was starving, so the smell of warm egg sandwiches and greasy hash browns sounded like heaven.

“Kennedy, are you okay? You’re awfully quiet,” Jason said as we waited at the window.

“Yeah, I’m just mulling over all the details,” I said, leaning back against the passenger headrest. “The way things are happening… in none of the previous Ghost Painter cases was there ever a murder. It doesn’t fit his profile.”

“I think Mrs. Winston went back to argue with Miller, got furious about her painting being stolen, and her husband killed the owner during a fight,” Jason offered, pulling into a parking space to eat. “Though… that still doesn’t explain who actually stole the canvas in the first place.”

“The Ghost Painter,” I said simply.

Jason groaned. “Don’t start with the Ghost Painter again.” He took a bite of his sandwich, a teasing smirk spreading across his face. “Besides, I saw you oogly-googling Blake earlier.”

I felt my cheeks warm up instantly. “Oh, stop it! He’s nice to look at, I won’t argue with that.”

“You need to have some fun, Kennedy,” Jason said gently, his tone turning supportive. “Get out there. Meet someone new.”

“Mmm… I think no,” I replied, taking a heavy sip of my drink. “Not right now.”

We finally made it to the station, and I immediately went back to my glass board, pinning up the new crime scene photos, running every single detail through my already overstimulated brain.

A couple of hours later, the squad car brought the Winstons in for questioning. Right on cue, Blake stepped off the elevator as well, trailing behind them in a sharp grey suit.

In the interrogation room, the pressure broke them fast. Mrs. Winston burst into tears, admitting that her husband had gone to confront Mr. Miller, blaming him for the security failure that led to the theft. The argument turned physical, and Mr. Winston had struck the owner in a fit of rage, killing him. She had dropped her ring during the desperate struggle to pull her husband off the gallery owner.

Mr. Winston confessed to the manslaughter on the spot and was taken straight down to central booking. Mrs. Winston, weeping and distraught, was given a ride home.

Case closed on the murder—but the painting was still missing.

“Kennedy, please come see me in my office,” a sharp voice called out from the upper hallway.

My blood went cold for a fraction of a second. It was Chief Sarah Matthews. I liked Sarah; off the clock, we were actually good friends, but inside the precinct, she ran everything strictly by the book.

“Yes, Chief,” I said, walking up the steps.

“Close the door,” she said as I walked into her glass-walled office. She sat back behind her large desk and leaned her chin on her hands. “Where are we on this whole mess?”

I laid out everything—the stolen painting, the physical entry through the roof, the Ghost Painter theory, the discovery of the ring, and the confession from Mr. Winston over the last forty-eight hours.

When I finished, Sarah looked at me with a softened expression. “And how are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” I said, offering a tired smile. “Just suffering from a severe lack of sleep.”

“I heard you had a rough night and then an ugly three-a-m call-out,” she said, leaning forward. “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

“I’ll be okay,” I promised.

“Well, the other reason I called you in here was to tell you… the squad is all heading out for drinks after the shift tonight. You never join us for department nights out, Kennedy. But maybe tonight, you should.”

I hesitated for a second, thinking of my cosy bed, but then Jason’s teasing words from earlier flashed through my mind.

“I’ll think about it, Chief,” I smiled. “Thanks.”

Chapter Six: Rooftops and Real Monet

It was 5:00 PM. Everyone in the precinct was packing up their desks and grabbing their coats, buzzing with excitement for after-work drinks. The local pub was only two blocks down. I was still standing by my desk, debating whether I should actually go, when my eyes caught him across the bullpen.

Mr. Dreamy. Er… Blake.

I grabbed my bag and walked out toward my car, wondering why he was still hanging around. I knew the painting was still missing and the investigation was technically open, but he had practically lived at the precinct for the last two days. He spent hours staring at our glass board, listening in on interrogations, jotting down notes, asking sharp questions, and making genuine suggestions to help the case.

Doesn’t this guy have a fancy corner office somewhere to run? I wondered.

I reached my sedan, and just as I pulled out my keys, Blake stepped up beside my driver’s side door, an effortless smile on his face.

“Are you coming out for drinks with the team?” he asked softly.

I leaned against my car. “Actually, I never do. But I think I might need one tonight.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Race you there?”

“Please,” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m taking my time. It’s two blocks down, and I definitely don’t drive a sports car like yours.”

Blake chuckled, giving a nod of approval. “Fair enough.”

He walked over to his glistening turquoise sports car and pulled out into the street while I scrambled into mine, muttering under my breath, What on earth am I doing? Drinks after work, actually feeling excited to be around Mr. Dreamy… it was an unusual combination for me.

As it turned out, being out with my colleagues was exactly the medicine I needed. For two hours, we sat in a cosy booth, laughing, swapping stories, and recounting old precinct legends I had never heard before. For the first time in days, the crushing headache and the weight of the case completely melted away.

As the night wore on, people slowly started paying their tabs and heading home. I was finishing the last of my drink when Blake slid into the seat across from me.

“Kennedy, how about a nightcap at my hotel?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

“Yes, sure. Why not?” I agreed almost instantly.

Conveniently enough, his hotel was directly across the street from the bar. I glanced at my parked car as we walked past, crossed the avenue, and entered the pristine marble lobby. The doorman greeted Blake by name, holding the elevator for us. We rode it all the way to the top floor.

The rooftop lounge was breath-taking. Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass and a semi-transparent glass roof, it offered a panoramic view of the glowing city skyline. Soft leather couches and intimate marble tables filled the space, with a sleek private bar tucked into the corner.

Blake headed to the bar to order our drinks while I sank into a comfortable leather sofa, taking in the view. A moment later, he walked over, set a glass in front of me, and sat down opposite.

“I haven’t figured you out yet, Kennedy,” he said, holding his glass and studying my face.

“Why do you feel like you have to figure me out?” I smiled, leaning back.

“You said you never hang out with your colleagues, yet tonight you looked like you were having the time of your life.”

“I did have fun,” I admitted. “I usually put my job above everything else. I don’t like mixing pleasure with work.”

“So why are you here?”

I looked at him over the rim of my glass. “Because I haven’t figured you out yet either. Curiosity got the better of me. I mean, you work for an art insurance company that only deals with multi-million-dollar pieces. They fly you in to join a police investigation. You stay in a luxury penthouse, drive a high-end sports car, wear designer watches, tailored suits, and custom shoes… You must earn a massive salary.”

Blake smiled into his drink. “I earn a decent salary, yes. But I also have a few side gigs I manage in my spare time.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you actually have free time?”

“Yes,” he laughed softly. “I don’t have to hunt down stolen art every single day.”

“Tell me about these side gigs.”

“I buy and resell art,” Blake explained, setting his glass on the table. “I hunt for lesser-known pieces by obscure artists, purchase them, insure them, and eventually sell them at private auctions. I also write a weekly column for an art journal, which helps generate interest in the pieces and drives up their value before they hit the market.”

“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “That’s brilliant. How did you get the capital to start something like that?”

“I inherited my grandfather’s estate years ago,” Blake said, his tone turning reflective. “I sold the property and the antique furniture, but I was left with a massive collection of paintings—some original, some completely unknown. I was working as a junior journalist at the time, so I convinced my editor to let me start an art column. That’s where it all began.”

“Who’s your favourite artist?”

Without a second of hesitation, his eyes lit up. “Monet. Hands down. I actually have an original piece of his back at home. Whenever I look at that landscape, the brush strokes, the soft light, the blending of colours… it instantly clears my mind. It makes me feel calm. It lets me breathe.”

I smiled softly. “You clearly know a lot more about art than I ever will.”

“Well, I actually have a few pieces down in my suite right now if you’d like to see them,” Blake offered, standing up and reaching for his coat.

“Why do you carry high-value art around with you in a hotel?” I asked, looking up at him.

“I acquired them at an estate sale nearby a few days ago,” he replied smoothly. “I’m taking them back with me when the investigation wraps up.”

“Sure,” I said, standing up and smoothing down my jacket. “I’d love to see them.”

We finished our drinks, left the rooftop lounge, and headed down the quiet hallway toward his private suite.

Chapter Seven: The Enormous Closet and the Extra Crate

Blake unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. The suite was pristine—almost as if no one had actually been staying there. Everything was immaculately arranged, with not a single jacket tossed over a chair or a pair of shoes left by the door. The only sign of life was a stack of carefully sealed wooden crates resting on the large dining table.

He walked over to the table and popped open the latches on the first box. Inside lay a beautiful canvas depicting a young girl sitting in a sunlit garden, staring back at me. He carefully lifted it out of the crate, revealing a second artwork underneath—a serene landscape of a blooming garden with a winding water stream.

Looking at it, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. Almost. But beneath the surface, a tiny knot of nervousness was starting to tighten in my stomach.

“These are beautiful!” I said, leaning closer to inspect the brushwork. “What are they worth?”

“Well, not a lot at the moment,” Blake replied with a modest shrug. “But they will be. They’re by a struggling new artist who couldn’t find a market. I bought them, and I plan on featuring them in my next journal column before taking them to auction. Once people start talking about them, the value will skyrocket. I make them famous.”

“Can I see the other paintings?” I asked.

“Sure.”

One by one, he carefully opened each crate, showing me every single canvas inside. I scanned through them with a practiced, investigative eye, searching for any subtle clues or a sign of the missing ten-million-dollar Winston masterpiece. But there was nothing. Just obscure, beautiful works from unknown painters.

After he packed all the artwork back into the crates, Blake turned to me with a relaxed grin. “How about we wind down in the Jacuzzi?”

He handed me a brand-new, boxed bathing suit from a side drawer. I took it and headed into the master bathroom to change while he got ready in the bedroom. He planned this.

The bathroom was staggering—an enormous, hyper-luxurious space. It featured a double-head rainfall shower, a walk-in closet, and a bathtub that felt almost as big as my entire apartment. It was completely over the top, but impressive nonetheless.

Standing in the middle of the bathroom, my detective instincts flared up again. I was curious whether Blake was the kind of traveller who lived out of his suitcase or someone who neatly unpacked into the drawers.

I reached out and slowly slid open the walk-in closet door.

No clothes. No hanging suits or folded shirts. Just a few spare hotel towels stacked on a shelf… and another wooden crate tucked quietly into the far dark corner.

My heart did a quick flutter, but I pulled myself together, slid the door shut, finished changing, and walked out to the terrace where the outdoor Jacuzzi was bubbling.

Blake stepped out a moment later, looking sharp in his trunks and carrying two glasses of chilled white wine. He climbed into the warm, steaming water beside me and handed me a glass.

“Let’s make a toast,” he said, raising his glass with that magnetic smile. “Here’s to our new friendship, and to a shared love for art.”

I clinked my glass against his, keeping my tone light and cool. “Even though I know next to nothing about art—cheers to art.”

Chapter Eight: Framed

I leaned back against the rim of the Jacuzzi, taking a slow sip of my wine. I looked over at Blake, taking in those sharp, gorgeous features that had completely disarmed everyone around him. For a moment, I thought about all the chaotic feelings this man had stirred up inside me over the last forty-eight hours.

But I knew it was all just a show. And I knew, deep down, that any real future between us was pure fantasy.

Just as my thoughts of Mr. Dreamy came to a screeching halt, the front door of the penthouse was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Heavy footsteps stormed across the suite.

Before Blake could even react, my entire team, flanked by Jason and Chief Sarah Matthews, burst onto the outdoor terrace with their weapons drawn and raised.

“Blake Newman, you are under arrest!” Jason barked, his voice echoing over the bubbling water. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney!”

Blake froze, the colour draining from his face, though he quickly tried to force a calm, incredulous laugh. “Jason? What is this? Why on earth are you doing this?”

“We have reason to believe you are the Ghost Painter,” Jason said coldly, not lowering his sidearm for a second. “And we know the ten-million-dollar Winston canvas is sitting in this very room.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. “I am going to need my lawyer. And you are going to need a search warrant to touch anything in this suite.”

“We’ve got everything we need,” Chief Matthews replied firmly.

Panicking, Blake turned his head toward me in the water, his smooth facade completely crumbling. “Kennedy… help me out here. Please! You know me—vouch for me!”

I slowly set my wine glass down on the edge of the tub, pulled myself out of the water, and grabbed a towel, looking down at him without a shred of sympathy left in my eyes.

“Sorry, Blake,” I said quietly. “I was just doing my job.”

He blinked, realization crashing over him like a wave. “Does this mean… you were in on this the whole time?”

I looked over at Jason and offered a small, victorious smile. “I told you I’d get your proof.”

So, how did we actually get to this point?

The truth was, I had been digging into Blake Newman from the very first minute he walked into that gallery. Yes, he was breathtakingly attractive, but my instincts told me never to trust a man who seemed that perfect.

I had Alice run a deep background check on his financial history. Blake had indeed been dealing in art for a few years and wrote for a journal, but the story about inheriting his grandfather’s estate? A complete lie.

Instead, I traced a massive, anonymous wire transfer into his offshore account from six years ago—the exact week the very first Ghost Painter piece was stolen and auctioned on the black market. His job as a high-end art insurance specialist wasn’t just a career; it was the ultimate cover. It gave him access to security blueprints, high-value targets, and allowed him to walk right onto crime scenes to misdirect police investigations from the inside.

My suspicions peaked earlier in the evening when I noticed the subtlest hitch in his stride—a faint, lingering limp in his right leg from an old injury.

The absolute confirmation came the moment he climbed into the jacuzzi. Right there on his right thigh was a distinct, faded bullet wound.

While we were investigating local emergency rooms earlier that day, Blake’s record hadn’t shown up because he was smart. On the night he was shot by the gallery guard a year ago, he had chartered a private jet out of the city, flying to a hospital hours away and claiming he had accidentally discharged his own hunting rifle. He knew staying local would get him caught.

And then came the closet.

While Blake was setting up the wine, I had opened that unmentioned wooden crate hidden in his master bathroom. Nestled safely inside was the stolen Winston canvas, wrapped and waiting to be smuggled out of the state to the highest bidder.

My heart had been pounding so hard I thought it would burst through my chest. But keeping my cool, I carefully re-latched the crate, walked out to the terrace, and sent a single, quiet text to Jason under the table: Target acquired. Crate in the bathroom.

Our trap had worked perfectly.

No pun intended… but Mr. Dreamy was completely framed.

I found the proof. I found the evidence.

We set Blake up to fail, and tonight, I officially caught the Ghost Painter.