Page 49 of The Prize

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat like you,” he said. “You devour your food like it’s your last meal.”

“That comes from my days growing up with a dad who got so distracted he forgot to feed me.” I recalled those days fondly even so. “I had to be an adult early on and cook for us.”

“You grew up fast?”

I shrugged off the memory. “After our house fire my dad changed. It was depression but I was too young to recognize it then. Anyway, I found some old cookbooks of my mom’s and learned how to cook from those. I liked seeing my dad eat a hot meal. I roasted chickens and beef, that kind of thing. Things easy to prepare. It’s not like we didn’t have the money but sometimes all we had in the house was bread and cheese.”

“You were brave, Zara.” He licked sauce off his fingers. “I imagine you gave him so much joy.”

“I hope so.”

“My uncle whisked me off to France initially and then when I turned fourteen we moved to Plymouth in Massachusetts where my mom was born, and where I was born too, hoping to give me the best childhood despite my loss.”

“Why didn’t he keep you in France?”

“My parents asked him to take care of me if anything happened to them.” He raised his hands. “I’m sure not once for a second did they believe it would. I found myself living in the home I grew up in, surrounded by familiar rooms and belongings, and I’m grateful my uncle gave me that stability.”

“He was a good uncle.”

“As close to a father as you can get. He took me out fishing once. I must have been twelve. I caught this tiny mackerel. You could fit it in your palm. Anyway, I was so damn proud. He cooked that fish on the skillet and ate the whole thing right there in front of me. From the noises he made you’d have thought he was eating a meal cooked by a top chef.”

“That’s adorable.”

“He’s the reason why I have my head on straight.”

“Do you miss him?”

“We talk often. Come with me to see him in Paris.”

I wiped my hands on my napkin. “That would be lovely.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“Tobias, you and I...”

He pushed his plate aside. “I see.”

“I need you to tell me you’ve changed your mind. Tell me you won’t try to fake a painting. Certainly not one as prestigious as theMona Lisa.”

“I’ve created a template. I was going to show it to you. Reassure you this is possible. We can get Burell with this.”

My stomach turned and I regretted eating so much food. “I’m trying to reason with you here.”

“We’ve come this far.”

“You just told me you believe you have your head on straight. Yet we spent the day with you showing me how you break into houses. This is not normal, Tobias. This is not okay.”

“When I stayed here my grandmother would take me out and buy me comics. I’d sit right over there and read them from cover to cover. I even wrote a few of my own. In those comics justice was always served. Always. I was nine when I realized that’s not how the world really works.”

“Do you see yourself like those superheroes, Tobias? Men who took justice into their own hands and got away with it? Because those men don’t exist.”

“It’s better than being a victim.”

“That’s unfair, I’ve done everything in my power to restore my father’s reputation.” I slid off the bar stool. “Every good decision I ever made was threatened when you and I met.”

“Zara—”

“Creating the otherMona Lisais impossible.”