Chapter 25: THE WITNESS
Christine Vale's apartment occupied the third floor of a Brooklyn Heights brownstone, the kind of pre-war building that whispered of better days and careful maintenance. I followed Neal up the stairs, counting steps, cataloguing exits, building the mental map that had become habit.
"Let me lead," Neal said at the door. "She's scared. Charm works better than pressure right now."
"Agreed."
He knocked. Three soft raps, deliberately non-threatening. Movement behind the door—someone checking the peephole, deciding whether to engage.
The door opened on a chain. A woman's face appeared in the gap, early forties, the careful composure of someone who'd learned to hide fear behind professionalism.
"Ms. Vale? I'm Neal Caffrey. We spoke on the phone."
"You're with the FBI."
"Consulting for them. This is my colleague, Aron Dark. May we come in?"
Christine's eyes moved between us, calculating risk against potential benefit. The same calculation I'd watched a dozen marks perform in the weeks since my transmigration—the moment when trust either formed or failed.
"Five minutes," she said finally. The chain rattled free.
The apartment was small but immaculate—antique furniture, carefully arranged artwork, the aesthetic of someone who genuinely appreciated beautiful things. A grandmother's china tea service sat on the sideboard, cups arranged with mathematical precision.
Christine settled into an armchair, keeping the coffee table between us. Defensive positioning, but she'd let us in. That meant something.
[MARK ANALYSIS: CHRISTINE VALE]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: FRIGHTENED | ANGRY]
[PRIMARY MOTIVATION: JUSTICE]
[FEAR LEVEL: 82%]
[VULNERABILITY: ISOLATION]
The fear was obvious. But underneath it, anger burned—the particular fury of someone who'd tried to do the right thing and been punished for it.
"You were an authentication specialist," Neal began, his voice gentle. "One of the best in the city, according to your references."
"I was." Christine's hands wrapped around each other in her lap. "Until I noticed something I shouldn't have."
"The forgeries."
"Three pieces at the Mercer Gallery. Minor works, not headline-grabbing, but I'd studied the artists extensively. The brushwork was wrong. Subtle, but wrong." Her jaw tightened. "I documented everything. Brought it to my supervisor. Two weeks later, I was terminated for 'performance issues.'"
"And the documentation?"
"Destroyed. By me." Christine met our eyes for the first time. "They made it clear what would happen if I kept copies."
The story matched what Elena had told us—the same pattern of intimidation, the same professional destruction. Whoever ran this operation wasn't just stealing art; they were systematically silencing anyone who noticed.
"The forger," I said, leaning forward. "Did you see him?"
Christine's fear spiked. I could see it in the tension around her eyes, the way her fingers tightened.
"Once. At a private viewing I wasn't supposed to attend. Older man, European accent—Dutch, I think. Painter's hands. He supervised the installation personally."
"Would you recognize him again?"
"Yes." The word came out barely above a whisper. "But there's something else. Something I noticed about his work."
Neal and I waited. The apartment was silent except for the distant hum of traffic.
"He's left-handed," Christine said. "But he disguises it. The brushwork is trained to appear right-handed—probably took decades to master. Most experts wouldn't catch it. But I studied biomechanics in graduate school. The muscle memory patterns are wrong. Once you know what to look for..."
[INTEL ACQUIRED: FORGER IDENTIFICATION MARKER]
[NOTE: LEFT-HANDED TECHNIQUE MASKED AS RIGHT-HANDED]
"That's good," I said. "That's very good."
"There's more." Christine's voice dropped lower. "I know where they do the swaps. A warehouse in Red Hook. I saw the address once, on a shipping manifest that crossed my desk before my supervisor caught it."
She recited the address from memory. I committed it instantly, feeling the weight of what she was giving us.
"Ms. Vale." Neal's voice was soft, careful. "Why are you telling us this? After what happened—"
"Because they're still operating." The anger surfaced now, hot and righteous. "Because somewhere, right now, someone else is noticing something wrong. And they'll be destroyed too. Unless someone stops this."
"We will," Neal said. "I promise."
Christine's laugh was bitter. "Promises. I've heard those before. My supervisor promised my concerns would be investigated. My lawyer promised I had a case for wrongful termination. Everyone promises."
"The people behind this," I said, "you're scared of them."
"I'm terrified of them." No pretense now, just raw honesty. "They make problems disappear. People who ask too many questions. Witnesses who might testify. I could disappear, Mr. Dark. It's happened before."
I made a decision. The kind Peter wouldn't approve of, the kind that committed resources I couldn't officially promise. But Christine Vale had risked everything to tell us what she knew, and she deserved something real in return.
"We can make you invisible too," I said. "New identity, new city, if it comes to that."
Christine stared at me. The fear shifted—not gone, but tempered now with something else. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"You can do that?"
"I can."
Christine made tea. Her hands trembled as she lifted the grandmother's china, the delicate cups rattling slightly against their saucers.
Sometimes courage looks like trembling fingers holding precious things.
She served us with the careful attention of someone performing a ritual—the social grace of hospitality deployed against fear. I accepted my cup with appropriate reverence, recognizing the gesture for what it was.
We talked for another hour. Details about the operation, names she'd heard mentioned in passing, the particular atmosphere of secrecy that had surrounded certain pieces at the gallery. Christine's memory was exceptional—the training that had made her a gifted authenticator now made her a valuable witness.
When we finally stood to leave, she followed us to the door.
"Mr. Dark." Her voice stopped me at the threshold. "The protection you promised. Was that real, or were you just saying what I needed to hear?"
The question deserved honesty.
"It will be real," I said. "I don't make promises I can't keep."
"Everyone says that too."
"I know." I met her eyes directly. "But some of us mean it."
Outside the building, Neal fell into step beside me. The May evening was warm, Brooklyn Heights quiet around us.
"That protection promise," he said. "Was that authorized?"
"No."
"Peter's not going to like it."
"Peter will understand when he sees what she gave us." I walked another block before adding, "And if he doesn't, I'll find other ways."
Neal was quiet for a moment. I could feel him reassessing, fitting this new information into his understanding of who I was.
"The identity fabrication," he said slowly. "You've done it before. For yourself."
The question was too close to truths I couldn't share. But Neal deserved something—he'd watched me make a promise that could blow back on both of us.
"I've rebuilt my life from nothing," I said. "I know how to help others do the same."
"Is that what you are? A rebuilder?"
"Among other things."
We reached the subway entrance. Neal stopped at the top of the stairs, his expression carrying something I hadn't seen before. Not the competitive assessment of our early days, not the grudging respect that had developed since. Something deeper.
"I understand rebuilding," he said. "Better than most."
"I know."
"If you can really protect her—Christine—then I'm in. Whatever you need."
Something shifted between us. Not quite trust—we both had too many secrets for that. But alignment. Recognition of shared purpose.
"Get Peter to approve witness protection," I said. "Official channels. I'll handle the backup plan."
"And if official channels fail?"
"Then we improvise."
Neal nodded slowly. Then he smiled—not his performance smile, but something more genuine.
"I think I might actually like you, Dark."
"Don't let it go to your head."
He laughed and headed down the stairs. I watched him go, then turned toward the street.
The warehouse address burned in my memory. Red Hook. The next piece of the puzzle.
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!