Page 118 of Capturing You

Claiming he’d planned to tell her the truth. Right. As if he hadn’t had enough time to do that in the hours and days she’d spent with him.

His excuse—that he’d wanted to tell his grandmother first—rang true, but how could she forgive his lies?

She thanked the driver, using an older-person voice. It didn’t sound authentic at all. She prayed nobody would ask her any questions.

The bells over the gallery door jingled as she let herself in, inhaling the familiar scents of vanilla and history.

Here, surrounded by her photographs, she felt at home. And safe, even if it was an illusion.

Jewel was talking to customers but called over her shoulder, “Be right with you.”

Brooklynn waved to indicate she’d heard, moving along the walls and gazing at the artwork as if she’d never seen it before.

Normally, she loved having customers, but today she wanted the couple to leave. It was the height of tourism season in Shadow Cove, though. If she managed to survive the mess she’d gotten herself into, she’d need all the customers she could get.

Jewel rang up a sale, promising to have their selection delivered within two weeks. When the couple walked out, Jewel called to her. “Can I help you?” She showed no sign of recognition.

“Just browsing,” Brooklynn said.

“Let me know if I can answer any questions for you.”

What she needed was for Jewel to get distracted so she could slip up the stairs. Not that she suspected her assistant of anything, but better to keep her presence here a secret from everyone.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and Jewel stepped into the office to answer it.

Brooklynn used her key to open the door in the back corner. She’d painted it the same color as the walls and, with a few art pieces on it, most people didn’t even realize it was there.

After closing and locking it again, she flicked on the light switch and climbed the staircase, careful of the creaky ones, to the second floor, where she let herself into her apartment.

She’d done it. She’d come home.

Her apartment was just as she’d left it. Tidy, open and airy, comfortable. Some of her favorite photographs graced the walls, adding color and interest. She’d spent too much money to remodel and decorate this space. It’d been mostly Mom and Dad’s money, but she was paying them back.

No matter how much she wanted to crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep, she had to do what she’d come to do and get out. There was no time for the heartache that battered her emotions.

Walking lightly so Jewel wouldn't hear her footsteps, Brooklynn hurried to her bathroom, where she removed the itchy wig and cap and braided her hair to keep it out of her face. Then she perused the text Alyssa had sent.

She hadn’t found any more information on Bryce Dawson or his friend, the so-called Niles. But she’d sent a boatload of information about the man who’d called himself Ford Baker after Brooklynn had texted from the Uber.

Forbes Ballentine was the chairman of the board of Ballentine Enterprises, but he’d never attended a meeting in person. Instead, his representative—a man named Tim Lakewood—took notes for Forbes, who ran his company over the phone.

Nobody had seen Forbes Ballentine since he was a child. Nobody knew what he looked like. Even the assistant, Tim, claimed to have never met him in person.

According to a magazine article about him, Forbes Ballentine was a recluse who avoided all interactions with people. Some said he was an agoraphobic living in the Ballentine house in Boston, having food and necessities delivered. Others said he’d never left the Shadow Cove mansion, rambling around in the old place all by himself for decades, living with the ghosts of his family.

Ridiculous, of course, but in the absence of information, foolishness prevailed.

The man Brooklynn had met was quiet and grumpy, but he was no agoraphobic. He’d faced cops and killers without fear.

She skimmed an extensive list of businesses owned by the Ballentines. Import companies, logging enterprises, real estate.

The Ballentine fortune was worth over a billion dollars.

The man who claimed to be a historian who dabbled in real estate and worked as a handyman to pay the bills was, in fact, a billionaire.

She could hardly wrap her head around it.

Not that it mattered. Billionaire or not, he was a liar.