“So here’s the thing,” said Jonathan. “You and I have a meeting at twelve thirty. I don’t want it to take beyond twelve forty. By twelve forty-five I will be hard at work on getting far away from here. As soon as everything is authenticated and I get the rest of my money, I will put you and Marcelline in touch.”

“You’ll put us in touch?”

“Sure. It seemed important to you. And what are friends for?”

“And why do I believe this? Why do I not just show up at your house and convince you—however that needs to happen—to tell me everything now?”

“You believe it. I can hear that you do. And you can hear me. You believe me because it’s true. This is the only thing I have to get on your good side. And I’m not going to lie, I’m glad there’s something I can use. You have to know I wouldn’t risk it by getting tricky with you now. But all of it hangs on the fact that I haven’t told her you’re here. Which I could still do. And if I do tell her, I’m thinking she’ll bolt. Seems like you might not want that. It’s simple, but fragile.”

“You and your simple.”

“See you at twelve thirty.” Jonathan hung up and grabbed his keys.

•  •  •

Jonathan didn’t entirely trust Owen not to show up anyway. In his worry version of the day, where Owen wanted the painting without paying, Jonathan had said he needed time to go get it. If he was being watched, he could go somewhere anyway, miming the misdirection. It would be the best time to discover whether he was being followed.

Freedom was just on the other side of lunchtime. But the painting was still his problem for a few more hours.

He listened for Donna and Carly, but the house was sleeping-in quiet.

He took the bag with the tuxedo-padded painting out of the closet and put it into the trunk of his car. It felt wrong. The back seat seemed safer, but either way, it felt as if he was inviting the most ironic car crash ever. And it would leave him more vulnerable than even that.

If his fantasy of Owen bearing down on him before the meetup was more than just paranoia, Jonathan’s not having the painting with him in a bad spot might be the only thing that let him live long enough to make one more plan.

So he put it back in the closet. But this time he folded the bag over in a loose roll and tucked it off to the side on the floor. He admired his handiwork and slid it under the two folded picnic blankets. That looked better. But he leaned the rolls of birthday wrap up against it as more camouflage, anyway.