“They did, but your uncle did not kill your father.”
“Then who did?” I exclaimed. “It became very clear that my uncle was lying to me from the start. Making up some harebrained story about my parents getting lost in the desert. I didn’t know what to think, who to believe. I still don’t know if I can trust you. In Cairo, I found a letter my mother had written addressed to Monsieur Maspero, asking for help because she believed her brother had turned into a criminal.”
He positioned himself so that he was sitting cross-legged in front of me. “Your uncle isn’t involved in the smuggling trade, Inez.” He took a deep breath. “There’s an organization named The Company, and members are called Curators. They are the ones who run Tradesman’s Gate, and your mother procures goods for their auctions.”
I fought to make sense of his words, putting the pieces together and trying to understand what he told me. “My mother is a Curator,” I repeated.
Whit nodded. “Ricardo suspected the truth, but he also thought that your father was involved.” He met my eyes, careful and guarded. “Are you saying he isn’t?”
“Not according to my mother,” I whispered. “She says he’s dead.”
Whit paled, and tugged at his hair. “You have to know something, Inez. She was . . . having an affair. I found out by accident, and she made me swear not to say anything. Promised me that it was a mistake, that she was ending it. But afterward, I noticed she was gone for long stretches of time. Barely writing to your father. I thought then she might still be.”
Thunder boomed in my ears.
I couldn’t believe what Whit had told me. It was wrong, like a moonless night or a dry riverbed. I shook my head, the ringing in my mind growing louder.
When I spoke again, my voice was hoarse. “She seemed so glad to see me.”
“That could have been real.” He hesitated. “How much was she able to take?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Close to three hundred artifacts in the form of jewelry, funerary boats, and limestone statues.”
A peculiar expression crossed his face, as if he’d had a thought that devastated him. “What about any parchment rolls? A single sheet?”
I raised my brows. “Mamá asked about a single sheet, too. I knew you’ve been looking for something. What is it?”
“It would have had a drawing of a snake eating itself. An ouroboros. Does that sound familiar?”
I shook my head.
“The sheet would also have had writing in Greek, more drawings and diagrams,” Whit pressed. “It would have looked like instructions.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t find anything like that. What is it?”
“Alchemy,” he said.
“Alchemy?” I repeated.
“It’s not important now. What matters is Lourdes.”
Right. My mother, the thief.
“There’s still something I don’t understand. What about the letter to Maspero?”
“The one you found in their hotel room? She could have easily planted that. Think about it—why wouldn’t she have sent it?”
The envelope came vividly to mind. The weight and feel of it, the creased letter within. It hadn’t even been stamped. I wanted to argue, to defend her, but words failed me. Every moment with her was tainted, ruined by her deceit. And like a foolish child, I’d helped her steal priceless works of art with monumental historical significance. My uncle would be devastated when he learned of the truth.
Mamá had thought of everything.
“She wanted that letter to be found, wanted the suspicion to fall on her brother. I’ve been such an idiot,” I said. “The whole time, she was manipulating me.”
Whit placed a soft hand on my arm. “She used your affection for her against you. It’s despicable. I would have believed my mother, too.”
Shame sucked me down like quicksand. I didn’t deserve any compassion, any grace. What I’d done was unpardonably foolish. “You don’t have to be kind to me.”
“And you,” Whit said sternly, “don’t get to be hard on yourself. Not over this.”
I heard the words, but couldn’t accept them. I’d made a terrible mistake, and everything in me wanted to make things right. “What do I do now?”
“Go to bed,” he said, his voice gentle. “In the morning, we’ll talk to Ricardo.”
My heart leapt. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
“I know. But I will.” Whit removed his hand, and I immediately missed the warmth of his palm against my skin. “Try to sleep, Inez.”
He turned to go.
“Whit,” I said.
He waited by the entrance. “What is it?”
“You’re terribly decent,” I said. “Despite pretending to be otherwise.”
“Just as long as you don’t tell anyone,” he said with a slight smile. Then he ducked out of my room.
I flung myself backward onto my bedroll, my mind whirring. The only way to make things right was to stop my mother somehow.
But I had no idea how to do it.
Capítulo Veintisiete
I opened my eyes on Christmas morning filled with dread. I sank farther beneath the blanket, grief hovering in the room like fog in the industrial part of Buenos Aires. In a matter of minutes, I’d be facing my uncle and telling him I’d betrayed all of them, right under their noses. After washing my face and getting dressed, I stepped out of the room, palms clammy with sweat. Whit stood leaning on the stone frame, a cup of tea already in his hands.
Wordlessly, he handed it to me and I took it with a meek smile.
“He’s by the fire,” he murmured. “With Abdullah.”
I flinched. Of course. I couldn’t have the conversation with only my uncle—what I’d done impacted Abdullah, too, even more so. Most of the crew were already at work, my uncle and Abdullah examining a journal laid out before them. They were probably discussing the opening of the tomb. My stomach clenched.
I’d utterly ruined the moment for them.
We walked side by side and then sat in front of them on the available mats, our bodies close. He was a good friend, one of the best I had.
Tío Ricardo didn’t glance up from the journal. “Shouldn’t you be heading into the treasury to work on the sketches?”
I clasped my hands tight in my lap. “I have to tell you both something.”
In unison, both of them lifted their faces and focused on my face. I’d barely slept, exhaustion making my shoulders droop, my voice low.
“What is it?” Tío Ricardo said impatiently. Abdullah dropped a careful hand on my uncle’s arm, as if signaling for him to remember his manners. He knew how to do that well. A useful skill to have as a business partner, not to mention family.
Whit gave me a sidelong glance. The silence stretched. I was stalling, the words caught in a tangle at the back of my throat. From the corner of my eye, I caught his slight movement. His warm palm engulfed mine. Squeezed, and then released it.