Chapter 12: The Box

Harvey did not touch Daphne.

He sat through twenty more minutes of her hand on his arm and her soft voice and the green sketchbook open on her knee.

He said "yes" and "I'll think about it" and "you should go."

When the elevator doors closed behind her, he walked into the study and put his fist into the wall beside the Fox.

It left a dent in the plaster.

Then he stood very still, breathing.

"You kept your word," I said.

"It's the hardest thing I've ever done."

His knuckles were bleeding.

I took him to the kitchen, ran his hand under the tap, and wrapped it in a dish towel.

"She has my sketchbook," I said. "She has it in her bag."

"I'll get it."

"You'll do nothing."

"Cassia"

"She'll say she wrote it," I said. "She'll say I broke into her bag. I need more than a recording."

He held my eyes.

"Then tell me what you need."

"A paper trail," I said. "Receipts. Anything with her signature on it from when she sold my work."

Harvey's face changed.

He pulled out his phone, then remembered it was in my pocket, and held out his hand.

I gave it back.

He called Rhys.

Forty minutes later, Rhys Cochran was standing in the kitchen in a wrinkled suit, holding a cardboard box.

It was an old banker's box with the corners split and a layer of dust on the lid.

He did not look at me.

"I owe you an apology," he said to the counter.

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