“Tara?”
“I can’t explain it.”
Anger and frustration seeped out of every one of Knox’s pores. “I want to help you, Tara, but until you tell me the truth, I can’t.”
Like before, when Knox stood silently at the window, neither of us spoke for long enough that I wondered if there was anything left for either of us to say.
“I’m going to sleep in the other room.”
He nodded. “I think that’s for the best.”
I walked across the hallway, closed the other door behind me, and threw myself on the bed. This was no different than the message Penelope had left, accusing me of stealing money and jewelry from her, Aine, and Ava. Actually, it was different. That had been worse. They’d known me almost all my life. Knox didn’t know me at all.
25
Halo
Honestly, what had I expected? That there would be some reasonable or even logical explanation of why her hair was found on a forged painting’s frame?
I went back downstairs, wishing I had something stronger than wine to drink. It wouldn’t matter if it were grain alcohol, though. Even the ninety-proof shit wouldn’t numb the pain I felt.
Why had I been so certain Tara was “it” for me? Was it because I’d been so desperate after the plane crash to find someone to spend my life with that I turned a blind eye to the fact I didn’t know her at all? She’d said it again and again. I didn’t know her.
What a fucking jackass I was, thinking that Tara and I had been making love. It was a giant load of horseshit, and I’d climbed right in the middle of it like it was a field of daisies.
I went outside and called Tackle.
“Hey, man.” He sounded groggy.
“It’s the middle of the fucking afternoon, what are you doin’? Taking a nap?”
“What do you want, Knox?”
“Tara Emsworth is the art forger. This whole time, her little-miss-innocent, serious-lack-of-self-esteem bullshit was all an act.”
“Hang on a sec.”
I heard rustling in the background, like he had been sleeping. After the sound of two doors closing, he said, “Okay. Start over.”
“Richard Emsworth is wanted for selling forged art. Millions of dollars worth.”
“I know that part.”
“Tara was the one painting the forgeries.”
“Are you sure?”
“They recovered one and, lo and behold, inside of the frame, they found a hair. DNA matched daddio’s.”
“It couldn’t have been his?”
“It wasn’t one hundred percent. If it had been, yes, it could’ve been his. Instead, it means it belongs to one of his children.”
“And Tara’s the only one?”
“Unless you’ve found another.”
“Sorry, man. I haven’t.”