“I’m just glad you’re okay,” I said.

She thanked me again and let out a breath. “I want to say that I’m sorry, that I…” She shook her head and fell silent as if she’d run out of words or had reconsidered what she’d been about to say, then painted on a smile. “Enough about me. What have you been doing?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “You don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That I returned it—the Mona Lisa.”

“What?” She leaned toward me.

I leaned forward too, wanted to touch her face, to kiss her, but held back, strained to keep my emotions in check while I told her what happened.

“You understand this is not for public consumption. None of this can be repeated,” I said and asked for her word.

“Yes, I swear.”

I decided to trust her, because in fact, I was bursting to tell her. “I went to Paris—to the Louvre—explained everything, showed them the evidence, and gave them back the original. That’s the short version. It was a bit more complicated. I worked through INTERPOL, had an analyst and an inspector along with me. I’ll tell you all about it another time.” The words another time echoed in my head, and I kind of hoped there would be one. “But it worked out really well for my friend, Smith, the analyst. He was reinstated, even got a big promotion, but that’s another story.”

“You have friends at INTERPOL? I always knew you were a spy,” she said and laughed, then stopped. “So you’re telling me you found the original painting and returned it to the Louvre, that the Mona Lisa that has been in the museum all these years was a fake?”

I nodded.

“And the original was—where? How did you find it?”

“It was…” I paused, couldn’t help dragging out the moment. “Hanging on the wall in your father’s vault.”

“What? Wait… So you lied to him that day?”

I nodded again.

“Wow,” she said, was quiet a moment, then, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“That my father will never find out he had the original. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that.”

“He won’t hear it from my lips.”

“Nor mine,” she said and sat back, shaking her head. “So you won’t get any credit for this major discovery?”

“No,” I said. “We made a promise to the museum. Only the Louvre and INTERPOL know the truth. All the documents, everything, are sealed. For all I know, shredded.”

“Wow,” she said again. “Well, I’ll never breathe a word of it.”

“You can’t. Not even at your father’s trial.”

“I promise,” she said. “But there won’t be a trial.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“He probably spent a day in jail, if that. I’m sure he’s out on bail, though I don’t really know. I haven’t spoken to him, and I don’t intend to, not ever.” She sucked in a breath, let it out slowly.

I told her we didn’t have to talk about it if it was too difficult, and she said it was okay, that she wanted to talk.