Page 89 of Bitter Lies

Did the king learn of the lie and give her an ultimatum? Was she afraid of the outcome if the truth came out?

So many questions.

The one person I want answers from is gone.

What was going through her head when she made a choice that would change the course of her unborn child’s life forever?

Was she being selfish? Or was she scared of what would happen if the truth came out?

Did someone else push her?

Would she have made the same choices if she’d known the outcome? Was it even hers to make?

Endless questions run through my head, and the only way to find the answers now is by uncovering the truth—following the breadcrumbs.

Lane’s incoming text pulls me back. I set the photo back where it belongs.

Time to dig into the mysteries hidden inside the gallery.

My attention can only be devoted to one mystery at a time. This one will have to wait.

Chapter 33

Aiden

Lane and I stand inside the gallery, staring at three empty walls.

I don’t even know what to make of it.

The only wall untouched holds pieces that mean nothing to outsiders—portraits, moments, memories. A wall of memoirs displayed as a memorial where Alma can sit and remember the children she lost.

A few are of a young Izzy as well, but I don’t have time to study those right now.

I’m more concerned with what’s missing.

The rest of the room is stripped bare—only a few heavy statues remain, standing lonely in the corners.

Across the room, Lane whistles as he reads a gold plaque. “She had a Rembrandt? That must have cost her a pretty penny.”

Making my way around the room, I study each plaque, appreciating just how valuable Alma’s collection was. Easily worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. Even a non-art enthusiast like myself recognizes several names.

Monet. Picasso. Van Gogh.

“Damn,” Lane snaps his fingers and points at a plaque. “Grimshaw. A Wet Country Road. I believe I’ve seen this one before. Are these originals or prints?”

His comment makes me chuckle. “I don’t think someone would go to all the trouble of making a room like this for prints, do you?”

“I’ve seen rich people do some crazy shit.” Lane stares at a statue, scratching his head. “What the fuck is this supposed to be?”

I walk over and stand next to him, hands on my hips as I do my best to follow Alma’s advice the night I first met her. Tilting my head from side to side, hoping that will help, I’m about to give up when it clicks.

I burst into a fit of laughter.

“What?” Lane gets closer as if that will help him see what I now do.

“Use your imagination,” I tell him. “It’s something you’ve surely seen before, many times.”

It’s not as obvious as the one from the art gala, but trust me, it’s unforgettable. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s inside a woman’s vagina and leaking from the tip. The sculpture is made of broken pieces of glass, rocks, and metal. Very abstract but…