The sale was set up, bird in the hand as it were, before he knew anything about feathered friends and birds of prey. Too fast. He’d have to split it with her, whatever she could negotiate. Jonathan was an only child to the last cell in his body, unaccustomed to sharing.

So he’d quick-plotted, using the simplest tool he’d had. He could control Roy with a minimum of explanation to rattle the buyer, some rich prick named Anninger. Easy. Hell, if it went wrong the right way, it would have been fine with Jonathan if they’d killed Roy or beaten him into a coma. Either way, it would have been the excuse Jonathan needed to duck out and reschedule—without Marcelline. After her indiscretion, with her career in the balance, she’d hardly be able to complain.

They all had guns, and Roy managed to ruin everything by spazzing at the trigger finger when one of buyer’s guys pulled his hands from his pockets. Both the small- and medium-size thugs fell, but the big guy, the absolute hardest-to-miss target outside the buildings themselves, had nothing but the noise to slow him down. Roy also killed Marcelline.

The double cross had closed off the legitimate route forever. Jonathan’s new enemies were possibly worse than jail. So four years on, instead of millions, he still had a little cash and the painting. And he still didn’t know how to get rid of it.

He could look for another Marcelline. Someone else out there would be as knowledgeable. Other people would be bold and greedy enough to slide this painting off to its next owner without involving the law.

Or . . .

Jonathan had to admit that he did know more now than he had back then. He knew at least one person who was willing and able to pay for the painting. He knew the name Anninger, and their guy, Marcelline’s contact . . . Oscar? Oliver? Owen, Oren, definitely an O name.

John pushed back from his desk where he’d been staring out the window until his eyes had gone dry. Donna was out of the house with her to-do list. Carly and Ada had packed up the art supplies right after school and run off again. They’d been living at the library over the last few days.

He’d been going in late to the office and coming home early. Everyone was so understanding of his need to be with his family at a time like this. And that worked great for John, who more needed to be with his painting at a time like this, even hidden away as it was.

The stillness of the house was gnawing at his nerves. He checked the drawer where he kept a little slush fund, but found only four twenties left.