Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Gallery
On Saturday morning, while Eric believed I was strolling along the Seine in Paris, I took an early morning train from Boston back to New York City.
I wore a dark trench coat, low boots, and wide sunglasses. I wasn't ready to face Eric or his family yet; first, I needed to confront the boy I had spent fifteen years protecting.
Marcus’s art gallery was located in a trendy, brick-lined loft space in Soho. It was 11:00 a.m., and the gallery was quiet, the white walls lined with expensive, abstract oil paintings that nobody was buying.
I pushed open the heavy glass door. A brass bell chimed overhead.
Marcus was sitting behind a glass desk in the back, sipping an espresso while scrolling through his phone. He looked prosperous—wearing a five-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater and a luxury smartwatch that I knew he couldn't afford on his art sales alone.
When he looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, his face went completely gray.
The espresso cup trembled in his hand, rattling against the saucer.
“Clara...?” he stammered, stepping back from his desk so fast he almost knocked his chair over. “What... what are you doing here? Eric said you were in Paris until Tuesday!”
I walked slowly across the polished concrete floor, my heels echoing in the quiet gallery. I stopped right in front of his desk, looking at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disappointment.
“Why aren't you in Belize, Marcus?” I asked softly.
Marcus swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the front door as if looking for an escape route. “Belize? What are you talking about? Clara, why aren't you on your trip?”
I reached into my handbag, pulled out the printed wire records from Beacon Hill Trust, and laid them flat on his glass desk, right next to his gold watch.
“$480,000,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that carried more power than a scream. “Luminance Arts LLC. A fake notary seal from Sarah. And twenty percent cut for you.”
Marcus stared at the banking documents. His skin turned a sickly, translucent white. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“I raised you, Marcus,” I said, stepping closer. “When Mom died, I spent my entire twenties working sixty-hour weeks so you could go to art school. I paid your rent. I paid your debts. And you sold our grandmother’s memory to Eric for a cashmere sweater and a luxury watch?”
“Clara... please,” Marcus whimpered, tears suddenly welling up in his eyes. He collapsed back into his chair, covering his face with his hands. “You don't understand... Eric told me... he said you knew about it! He said it was just a temporary tax loophole for your consultancy firm!”
“Don't lie to me!” I barked, slamming my hand onto the desk. The sharp crack echoed off the gallery walls like a gunshot. Marcus flinched hard.
“I recorded the entire conversation in my bathroom yesterday, Marcus,” I revealed, leaning over the desk until I was inches from his face. “I heard Richard tell Eleanor that you were demanding your twenty percent cut transferred to Belize before my annual audit. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Marcus began to sob, sinking low into his designer clothes. “They promised me... Eric said if I didn't give him the trust credentials, he would tell the IRS about my undeclared gallery income from three years ago. He blackmailed me, Clara! He had me trapped!”
“You trapped yourself the second you chose greed over loyalty,” I said coldly.
I pulled out the burner phone and placed it on the desk.
“Here is what is going to happen right now, Marcus,” I commanded. “You have two choices. Choice one: I walk out of this gallery, call the federal prosecutor, and name you as a co-conspirator in an ongoing bank fraud investigation. You will go to a federal penitentiary for at least five years.”
Marcus looked up at me, his eyes wide with absolute terror. “What’s... what’s choice two?”
“Choice two,” I said, leaning in close, “is that you do exactly what I tell you to do for the next forty-eight hours. You will call Eric right now, on speakerphone, and tell him you need him to sign the final loan transfer release at his office on Monday morning. And you will not drop a single hint that I am in New York.”
Marcus stared at the phone, his hands shaking violently. “And if I do that... will you help me?”
May you like
I looked at my brother—the boy I had loved, now a stranger broken by his own weakness.
“If you do that,” I said softly, “I won't send you to prison. But you and I are finished forever. Pick up the phone.”
