Read Chapter 23: The Lie Exposed

The gala’s glittering wreckage was still burning in Camille’s mind when the inspector found her in the marble foyer, coat half-on, one heel already pointed toward the exit. She’d almost made it. Almost.

“Mademoiselle Moreau.”

The voice was flat, official. She turned to find a man in a charcoal trench, badge already open in his palm like a threat. Inspector Delorme. She’d read his name in case files—a bulldog with a grudge against art crime, which meant he was either an ally or a liability. Judging by his eyes, it was the latter.

“Inspector.” She kept her voice light. “I’m afraid I’m just leaving. Pressing engagement.”

“The Monet.” He didn’t move aside. “The one you authenticated for the Vasseur collection last spring. Signed, stamped, your seal on the provenance certificate.”

Her stomach dropped, but her face held. “The Vasseur Monet is genuine. I examined it personally, ran pigment analysis, cross-referenced the chain of custody. It passed every test.”

“It passed *your* tests.” Delorme took a step closer. “Because the painting you examined was a copy so good it fooled you. Or because you chose to be fooled. We’ve had three other experts look at it since it was flagged in a routine audit.” He paused. “All three say it’s a fake. The real one was swapped—best guess, eighteen months ago. Right around the time you signed off.”

The marble floor felt unsteady. Eighteen months. The Vasseur commission had been her anchor in a sea of debt, the fee that had kept the wolves from her door for another season. She’d been thorough. She’d been *sure*. Petiot had been the second set of eyes on that one too.

Of course he had.

“The swap happened after my examination,” she said, but she heard the wobble in her own voice. “Someone with access replaced it later. Check the storage logs. Check—”

“We did.” Delorme’s jaw tightened. “The logs show your pass was used to access the vault three weeks after your authentication. Late at night. No one else on record.”

Her pass. Her code. Stolen, or cloned by someone who had months of access to her life, her habits, her security questions. Petiot again. A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the autumn air.

“That wasn’t me,” she said. “Someone copied my credentials. Inspector, listen to me—there’s a ring operating at the highest level of the Paris art world. I’ve been investigating them. I have evidence.”

“Evidence.” Delorme’s mouth twisted. “Funny you should mention that. See, a colleague of yours—a Dr. Alain Petiot, from the Louvre’s authentication lab—called us tonight. Said he’d grown suspicious of you weeks ago. Noted irregularities in your submissions. He suggested we watch you tonight, here, at this gala.” He tilted his head. “And here you are.”

Camille’s blood turned to ice. She’d known Petiot was brutal, but this was surgical. He hadn’t just threatened her with leverage—he’d pre-mining the scene. Making sure that if she tried to run to the authorities, they’d already have a story that painted her as the villain.

“Petiot is the ring’s mastermind,” she said, and even she heard how desperate it sounded. “He approached me tonight. He admitted it. He’s using my father’s debt to control me and anyone else who gets close.”

Delorme’s expression didn’t change. “Your father’s debts are a matter of public record, Mademoiselle Moreau. You’ve been under financial pressure for years. That’s a motive, not an alibi.”

Panic surged up her throat. She had the tracker—the tiny magnetic dot she’d slipped onto Petiot’s jacket lapel less than an hour ago. It was live. It was leading somewhere. But if Delorme took her in, it would never matter. Petiot would retrieve the device, and the last thread to the Caravaggio’s location would vanish.

“You’re making a mistake,” she said evenly. “Arrest me now and you’ll hand Petiot the win. He wants me silenced, Inspector. I’m the only one who knows his face.”

“And yet you came to the gala officially as a consultant,” Delorme said. “Entered with credentials tied to Vasseur. The same Vasseur whose collection you’ve been systematically compromising for—” He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded sheet, and flicked it open. “Eight months. That’s a lot of paintings, Mademoiselle. A lot of money. Enough to clear your father’s debts twice over.”

“I didn’t do it.” Her voice had gone very quiet. “You’re being used. He’s feeding you exactly what you want to believe.”

“Funny,” Delorme said. “Dr. Petiot said you’d claim exactly that.”

The trap was perfectly laid. She could almost admire it, if it didn’t mean her ruin. Petiot hadn’t just threatened her—he’d pre-empted every move she could make, framed her so completely that even the truth sounded like a lie.

Delorme reached for his cuffs. “You’re coming with me.”

“No, she isn’t.”

The voice came from behind her, low and familiar. Étienne. He’d been supposed to wait in the car with the tracker receiver, but he was here, striding through the foyer like he owned it, his dark coat swirling around him. Delorme’s hand went to his side, but Étienne was faster—he closed the distance in three strides, caught Delorme’s wrist, and twisted.

The inspector grunted, off-balance. Étienne used the momentum to drive him back against a marble column, one forearm across his throat, just firm enough to freeze him.

“Run, Camille,” Étienne said, not looking at her. His eyes were locked on Delorme’s flushed face. “The car. Go.”

“You’re making this worse,” Delorme choked out. “Assaulting an officer. You’ll never—“

“I’m aware.” Étienne’s voice was almost bored. “Camille, *now*.”

She hesitated for half a second—a lifetime, in a chase—and then she ran. Her heels skittered on the stone, her coat flapping behind her. She burst through the glass doors into the cold night air and saw the black Peugeot idling at the curb, passenger door already open.

She dove in. Étienne appeared a heartbeat later, sliding into the driver’s seat, engine already roaring. The door slammed shut. Tires screamed against wet asphalt as the gala’s glare shrank in the side mirror.

Behind them, Delorme burst out of the entrance, shouting into his radio.

Camille took a ragged breath. “He’ll have every patrol in Paris on us within minutes.”

“Let him.” Étienne’s voice was calm, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the tracker receiver, and glanced at the screen. A red dot pulsed steadily. “We’ll be off-grid before he coordinates a response.” His eyes flicked to her for a fraction of a second. “I told you it was a trap. You still walked in.”

“I got what I needed,” she said. “I have his location. Now.”

Étienne’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. The car shot through a yellow light and plunged into the narrow streets of the Marais, leaving the gala—and the inspector’s accusations—behind, scattering into the night like broken glass.