The paramedics arrived in a flurry of neon vests and sterile equipment, but their urgency evaporated the moment they reached the sedan. They moved from resuscitation to processing with a quiet, clinical efficiency that made Eva sick to her stomach.
She stood behind the yellow police tape, the freezing wind off the harbor biting through her silk pajamas.
Liam was beside her, but the space between them felt like a canyon. He had stepped back exactly six inches—a microscopic physical retreat that screamed louder than words. He was on his phone, speaking in a voice so low and flat it sounded robotic. He wasn't looking at the car anymore. He wasn't looking at her. He was already mobilizing his family's crisis management team.
My father.
The two words he had spoken earlier were still ringing in Eva's ears, a toxic loop she couldn't shut off. Liam's father, Daniel Carter. The man who had funded her first gallery. The man her father played golf with every Sunday.
A silver Volvo slammed to a halt at the edge of the police barricade, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom.
Mia tumbled out before the car had even fully stopped. She was wearing sweatpants, a mismatched coat, and an expression of pure, unadulterated terror.
"Eva!"
Mia ducked under the tape, ignoring a protesting officer, and collided with Eva. The embrace was desperate, smelling of sleep and vanilla. It was the first warm thing Eva had felt in an hour, and it nearly broke what was left of her composure.
"I'm here, I'm here," Mia kept whispering, her hands trembling as they gripped Eva's shoulders. She looked past Eva, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—the forensic lights, the covered windshield, and then, Liam.
Mia's protective instincts flared. "Liam? What the hell happened? What is he doing here?"
Liam finally ended his call. He slid the phone into his jacket pocket. His hands stayed there. He looked at Mia, his face a terrifyingly blank canvas. There was no grief. No shock. Only calculation.
"Take her home, Mia," Liam said. His voice was devoid of any inflection.
"Excuse me?" Mia bristled. "She shouldn't be going to an empty apartment. She's coming to my place. And aren't you supposed to be—"
"Take her to your place, then." Liam cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. He finally looked at Eva. For a fraction of a second, his eyes lingered on the shivering line of her shoulders. His jaw flexed. But he didn't reach out. "Don't speak to the press. Don't answer unknown numbers. I will handle Detective Davis."
"Liam..." Eva started, her voice raspy. She needed him to say it wasn't true. She needed him to break the ice and tell her there was an explanation.
But Liam just gave a curt nod, turned his back on them, and walked toward the detective. The trench coat he was wearing flared slightly in the wind.
Eva watched him go, a profound, terrifying realization settling into her bones: He is choosing a side. And it isn't mine.
"Come on," Mia urged gently, steering Eva toward the Volvo. "We need to get you out of here."
The heater in Mia's car was blasting, but Eva couldn't stop shaking. The passenger seat felt like a sensory deprivation tank after the harsh lights of the docklands. The rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound as they drove away from the harbor, leaving her father—and Liam—behind.
Eva closed her eyes. She wanted to cry. She expected to cry. But the tears wouldn't come. Instead, the training kicked in.
Eva Bennett was a world-class art curator. Her entire career was built on spotting the anomaly. A brushstroke that was too heavy. A pigment that didn't belong to the era. A provenance that looked too perfect. Her brain, desperate to escape the emotional trauma of her father's death, began to treat the crime scene like a forged painting.
What was out of place?
She replayed the horrific visual of her father in the driver's seat. The charcoal suit. The seatbelt securely fastened.
Wait.
Eva opened her eyes. The streetlights flashed rhythmically through the window, illuminating the intense focus forming on her face.
The seatbelt.
Her father never put his seatbelt on before starting the engine. It was a terrible habit he'd had for twenty years. He always started the car, adjusted the radio, and only then, as he pulled out of the driveway, would he reach for the belt. But the engine of the sedan had been off. The keys weren't even in the ignition; they were resting on the passenger seat.
Why was he buckled in?
"Eva?" Mia's voice was soft, breaking the silence as they stopped at a red light. She glanced over, her eyes filled with worry. "Are you... do you need anything? Water? Should I call a doctor?"
"No," Eva said. Her voice surprised both of them. It wasn't the broken whisper from the docks. It was steady. Cold, almost.
Mia swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "I know this is... I know I shouldn't ask. But I saw Liam's face back there. And the way those cops were acting... Eva, what did the police say to you?"
Eva looked out the window at the sleeping city. "They said it wasn't a heart attack. And they have footage of a man getting into my father's car right before he died."
Mia gasped, her foot hovering over the brake. "Who?"
"Liam's father."
The Volvo swerved slightly before Mia corrected it. "Daniel? That's insane. Why would Daniel Carter..." Mia trailed off, her mind spinning to catch up. She looked at Eva, searching her face for the devastation that should be there. Instead, she found something sharper. "Eva, you don't actually believe Daniel had something to do with this, do you?"
"I don't know what I believe," Eva said quietly.
Her curator's brain was working overtime now, sorting through the catalog of the past forty-eight hours. The timeline. The interactions. The anomalies.
"Was your dad acting strange lately?" Mia asked tentatively. "Did he say anything? Seem worried?"
The question acted like a key in a lock.
A memory from yesterday afternoon rushed back with brutal clarity. They had been in her father's private study, going over the guest list for the auction. He had been distracted. He had poured a glass of scotch at 2:00 PM—something he never did.
Eva remembered looking at him, asking if he was feeling alright regarding his heart.
He hadn't looked at her. He had stared into his glass, his finger tracing the crystal rim.
Eva's breath hitched in the quiet car as the exact words he spoke echoed in her mind.
"Sometimes, Evie," her father had said, his voice heavy with a regret she hadn't understood until this exact second. "The most dangerous fakes aren't the ones hanging in a gallery. They're the ones we've been living with."
He hadn't been talking about art.
He had been warning her.
Eva turned to Mia, her eyes wide, the grief finally giving way to a chilling, razor-sharp clarity.
"Mia," Eva whispered, the implications crashing over her like a tidal wave. "He knew someone was coming for him."