“And now I’ll hand the stage over to Kenneth Davis, our auctioneer,” Katie says, while a short man with a Santa Claus beard joins her.
“We’ll open the bidding at fifty thousand dollars,” he announces, but right now, I’m not in this room. I’m back on that beach, reliving that night that was less than one year ago now. The cold wind. The heavy emotions. The profound way one woman brought together a city and touched so many hearts and lives. She certainly did mine.
“One hundred thousand,” the auctioneer calls out, snapping me back to the present, my gaze pulling left to find Faith still standing with Josh, and delivering way more satisfaction than it should, his hand is no longer on her shoulder. I inhale and glance at the painting again, and I am suddenly far more connected to the many dark secrets of Rebecca’s life, death, and murder than ever before. I want this painting.
Decision made, I walk to the table positioned by the door, and register to bid. Faith appears by my side, my beautiful bird returning to me at the same time “three hundred thousand dollars” is shouted out from the stage. “You’re going to bid?” she asks.
“I’m going to win,” I tell her, accepting my paddle, as I hear “Four hundred thousand dollars,” shouted out. Not about to allow the auction to close before I win, I give Faith a nod and start walking, looking for a spot near the stage. A moment later, Faith catches up to me, pursuing me now, and then and only then, do I snag her fingers with mine, guiding us to the right side of the stage, close enough for the auctioneer to see and hear me. “Five hundred thousand dollars,” he calls out. “No,” he amends quickly with another raised paddle. “Make that six hundred thousand.”
I release Faith’s hand and she murmurs, “My God,” at the dollar figure and links her arm with mine. Touching me by choice, that free will she is showing motivating me to win my auction sooner rather than later, and get her out of here. I hold up my paddle and call out, “One million dollars.”
The room seems to let out a collective gasp, but the auctioneer is not fazed. “We have one million dollars,” he says. “Do we have a million one?”
“A million fifty thousand,” a woman call outs.
I scan the crowd, a forty-something woman in a red dress is directly across from me giving me a wave, a smug look on her gaunt, overly made up face that says she thinks she’s won.
“A million one,” I say loudly, lifting my paddle.
The woman scowls and the room fills with murmurs before the auctioneer says, “Do I have a million two?”
My competition purses her pre-puckered lips and lowers her paddle, then sits. The auctioneer delivers final warnings and it’s done. I’ve won my painting. Faith steps in front of me, gripping my lapels as she had in the bathroom. “You just bid a million dollars on one painting.”
A million one, I think, but I don’t point that out. “It’s a charitable donation,” I say instead.
Josh appears beside us and goes on the attack. “How the hell does an attorney have the money to pay that kind of bid?”
“Josh,” Faith snaps. “Stop.”
“I’ve invested well and inherited well,” I tell him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“I want to invest where you invest,” he snaps.
“I’ll give you my guy’s name,” I say dryly, “but I have to warn you. I make most of my own picks.”
“Of course you do,” he says, repeating the exact words Faith had used about me knowing Chris Merit earlier. I arch a brow and he smirks. “Bottom line. You have money to throw around, and you thought you’d use it to impress Faith.”
He’s trying to take us back to our bathroom argument and I’d shut him down, but Faith steps in first. “Josh,” Faith chides, and looks at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” I say. “I do want to impress you, but not with my money.” I glance at Josh. “Because what your agent here fails to understand is that smart people do not surround themselves with those chasing their money, or with any misplaced agendas.”
His eyes sharpen with hate before he spouts back with, “My agenda is to protect and support Faith.”
“I wasn’t aware we were talking about your agenda at all,” I say, making his misstep obvious.
It’s in that moment that Katie chooses to join us, smiling at us all, her greeting first directed at Josh and Faith, before she focuses fully on me. “Nick Rogers,” she says, offering me her hand. “Thank you for being so very generous.”
“It’s a special painting,” I say, shaking her hand. “It took me off guard, but in a good way. I had to have it.”
“Chris told me when he called about your ticket that you’d understand the painting in ways others would not.”
“Rebecca not only means something to me,” I say in confirmation. “But I was on the beach the night that painting depicts.”
“You knew the woman who inspired the painting?” Faith asks.
“I knew her,” I say, thinking of the many times I saw Rebecca with my client, in what is now my sex club. She was his. He just didn’t know how much he wanted her to be his. But that isn’t information for Faith or anyone else. “I was involved in the investigation into her disappearance and represented someone close to her.”
Josh jumps on that. “Someone suspected of murdering her?”
“Rebecca was killed by a woman who was jealous of my client’s love for her,” I say.
“Thrown in the sea,” Katie supplies, “Chris’s wife found her journals and ultimately she was a key to solving the crime.”
“Really?” Faith says. “That’s…incredible. How must she feel being a part of such a tragedy?”
“She feels like she knows her,” Katie says. “Chris did know Rebecca and it guts them both that she’s gone. Though I admit, I keep hoping she’ll show up one day, and we’ll find out she’s been on some island somewhere, living life well.”
“We all do,” I agree, “including everyone on that beach that night who didn’t know her, but knew her story.”
“Indeed,” Katie agrees. “Indeed.” She inhales. “Onto brighter topics.” She turns to Faith while Josh slips away, hopefully shamed into staying away. “Faith,” Katie says, taking her hand and patting it. “You are so very talented. We’re honored to have your work here.”
“Thank you,” Faith says. “I’m honored to have it here.”
“Your father would be proud,” she says. “Reid was proud of you.”
I watch Faith’s delicate little brow furrow. “You knew my father?”
“I did,” she says. “And your mother. Our neighbors are like family. We loved hearing your father tell stories about the many Reid Winter’s before him. We actually used to get together with them when you were a young girl.”
I watch confusion slide over Faith’s face. “But I thought you were competitors. My mother said—”
“We were competitors? I mean, technically yes, but variety is the spice of life. It’s not us or you.”