The following morning, I ushered Michael through the side door at my house, hoping no one would look at the security cameras stationed around our property. It was the first time he’d been to my house, and it was odd having him there.

“Great place. Very Mediterranean. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Yeah, yeah. Follow me.” I led him back to my studio, which was a mess of art supplies and canvases. As it was isolated at the far end of the house and a total disaster area, no one ventured back there but me. It was my sanctuary. I loved everything about the well-lit space.

I flipped through a pile of canvases leaned against the wall, pulling out the one I was looking for and placing it on an unoccupied easel. Michael and I both stared at the piece—the depiction of a European farming community situated beneath a mountain. Before he said a word, I handed him a rolled-up poster I pulled from beneath my supply table.

Unrolling it, he held the poster up, peering closely at the image, then back at my canvas. He searched and analyzed, comparing the two pieces. “This is remarkable,” he said on a breath, never taking his eyes from his task. Finally, he lowered the poster and turned to me, his face as impassive as I’d ever seen it. “Sofia, I need to know why you showed me this.”

I chewed on my lip, uncertain what I wanted to say. I hadn’t been totally sure why I’d showed him what I’d done. Pride? To some extent. But it was also invigorating. There was a thrill in knowing I’d so masterfully copied a great work of art. “At the museum, you said I should put their names on my art. What if … I did? What if I made copies of famous artwork?”

“I think you’d be a very talented, very rich young woman, but is that what you really want?”

“One day, I was at a museum and had the same revelation you had yesterday. I can paint just as well as these other people. I came home with my poster and painted. Copying the detail, using aging techniques and specialized paints—it was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever done. I want to sell my own original pieces as well, but the thrill of creating this—I can’t imagine topping it. I’d already been thinking about what piece I could do next.”

“Are you saying, if I could find a buyer, you’d be interested in selling this work as an original Cézanne? There would be consequences if it were ever traced back to you. Surely, you understand that.” He searched my features warily, trying to judge my willingness of conviction.

“The appealing part of it—the challenge—isn’t in simply painting the piece. The satisfaction comes from successfully passing it off as the original. What’s the point if it just sits in my closet? I want to know that I’ve created the ultimate forgery able to fool anyone who looks at it.” My voice thrummed with excitement. “It’s just like you said. This world becomes a part of us. The secrets and lies are in our blood. As much as I hate that my family has kept their secrets from me, I can’t help but delight in having secrets of my own. Call me a hypocrite, I don’t really care.” I smiled at Michael, who happened to be one of those very secrets.