Page 28 of Deadly Charade

He kept one eye on the rearview mirror, checking for anyone who might be following them. “I wound up getting a full ride to Harvard and double majored in art history and business. After I graduated, a gallery hired me to be a curator. I spotted a couple of forgeries that some creep was trying to pass off as originals, and I called the FBI. The second time I called, they recruited me.”

“That’s impressive.”

He tapped on the steering wheel. “I guess. But once I started working with the Bureau, I found my passion in stolen art. I think that’s the legacy Grandpa left behind. His love of art and history resonated with me, and I hate to see paintings, sculptures, or anything of cultural significance sold on the black market, never to be seen again. Nothing makes me happier than restoring smuggled artifacts to their home and reuniting countries with their proper possessions.”

“Do you believe there’s a treasure trove of artifacts that somehow made its way to the mountain towns of West Virginia? Seems implausible, but what’s your gut reaction?”

Bryce racked his brain for an answer. When was the last time he made a decision based on instinct alone? “Gut reaction again, huh? I prefer evidence. I’ve never found any proof of buried treasure where I came from. Just drunken bar gossip from some of the locals.”

“Then tell me about the stories, the legends. We have a long car ride and I’m already bored.”

He glanced at Kira. The sunlight shone through the window, making her auburn hair sparkle with hues of red. His fingers itched to touch it. To see if it was as soft as it looked. He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the road. “A few locals started a rumor about a hidden bunker in the mountains full of lost art. Dating back to the Civil War. My grandpa spoke of it a few times. Claimed a man at the bar told him all about some family that kept the art on lockdown to preserve it. Allegedly, it started with someone taking paintings from a mansion during the Civil War before the home burned to the ground. And over the years, they supposedly amassed an extensive collection.”

Kira jotted a few notes. The woman was old-school with her pen and paper, but he appreciated her meticulous documentation and attention to detail. Just not the pen clicking.

“Sounds like you had a great time with your grandfather growing up. But what about your parents?”

Danger warnings pumped a steady beat through his head. He did not talk about his childhood with anyone. Because talking about that would lead him to thinking about one of his biggest regrets. All he’d wanted to do was take care of his father, get the man sober, and help him find a job. But his father had refused and had thrown Bryce out the door when he’d turned seventeen.

He’d left and refused to look back. Until now. But only because she was forcing him to. “Grandpa saved my childhood—he was my hero. I lost my best friend when he died.”

“And your parents?”

She would not let it go. But he wanted to know more about her past, so he’d throw her a bone. “My mom left when I was eight, and I remember everything that led up to her leaving. The fights, the accusations. My father wasn’t a nice person. He had issues with gambling and alcohol, and his obsessions left us perpetually penniless.”

“Trailer park trash . . . Hillbilly . . . Beggar Bryce.”

The names whispered through his mind, as did the remembered shame, hurt—and anger. And it wasn’t his fellow classmates. He’d once overheard his second-grade teacher call him a “hoodrat” and refer to William Lambert as “worthless.” Just the gossip of a small town, but it left a permanent scar on his heart.

“I’m so glad your grandfather was there for you,” she said.

He studied her for a brief second before turning his eyes back to the road. She’d grown up in an orphanage. At least he’d had a family with Grandpa. “I stayed at his place most of the time. I was so blessed to have him in my life. He passed away from a heart attack when I was fourteen.”

Kira gave a soft gasp. “That’s rough. Did you live with your dad after that?”

“I had no other options. He wasn’t abusive in the physical sense. Just in the neglectful one. I wound up becoming the parent and taking care of him. Making sure we ate and so on.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

Bryce wanted to change the subject but steeled his courage and pressed on. “I haven’t been back since I was seventeen. The day I got accepted to college was the day my dad kicked me to the curb. Refused my help. Told me I’d betrayed him by applying to school.” He clenched the wheel. “What kind of dad says that when his son gets accepted to Harvard? Later, I couldn’t bring myself to return.” He had kept tabs on the man through a local friend who’d let Bryce know William Lambert hadn’t changed and wouldn’t welcome a visit from him. So that was that.

Kira took a sip of her coffee. “I can understand why this trip is difficult for you. But I’m sure you’ve changed over the years, and your past has certainly shaped who you are today—for the better. I even noticed you lost any trace of a West Virginian accent.”

This woman understood him in ways no one else ever came close to. It was interesting. And . . . disturbing. “I wanted to put some distance between my past and future. And you’d think I’d want to go into social services to help kids like me, but I wanted to honor my grandfather, his passion and all that he loved. Everything Grandpa found when treasure hunting with his metal detector is on display at the town historical center. Because of his passion and beliefs that those items should be for everyone, I chose fighting for art rights. It honors his legacy, and people shouldn’t profit off looted history.”

Bryce’s father had always been waiting for the next get-rich-quick scheme that never panned out. Thankfully, his grandfather had stepped in to teach Bryce to value what truly mattered—faith, integrity, and a relationship with Jesus. That foundation carried Bryce through the hardest seasons of his life, including the day his father had betrayed him by draining Bryce’s savings account and leaving him penniless. Bryce had worked two and sometimes three jobs to pay for rent and books in college.

After a few pit stops and a visit to a quaint coffee shop for a quick caffeine fix, they arrived in Riley, West Virginia. Kira craned her neck to take in the scenery as they drove down the town’s main street. “I can see why people love it here. It’s beautiful.”

Bryce nodded. Well, some people loved it. Not everyone. Not him. But after being gone so long and seeing the place through distanced eyes, he could see the attraction.

Nestled in the valley of the Appalachian Mountains, the town had stunning mountain views on all sides. They drove through the heart of Riley, past rows of antique shops, touristy stores that sold magnets and T-shirts, and a smattering of mom-and-pop restaurants. No chains here.

Bryce’s heart thawed at the sight of small-town life. People walked their dogs and socialized on the sidewalks. Banners advertised a winter carnival. In some ways, he missed the charm and beauty of these mountains. It was the memories of his father that ruined the idyllic setting and robbed him of childhood reflections filled with family, friends, cookouts, and community.

The mechanic’s shop sat at the far north end of town. Bryce pulled onto the gravel driveway and parked by the main garage. A man walked out to their car before they’d even gotten out. “Can I help you?” he said with a thick West Virginian drawl. The guy was probably in his fifties but appeared much older with tanned skin and gray hair.

Kira jumped out of the car and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Katrina Beckett and this is my husband, Brian. We’re here to see Derek Young.” Kira had softened her accent—still New York, just muted enough not to clash with someone so far removed from the rush of city life.