After twenty-three years of friendship, Art betrayed my father, and my father killed him. Maybe there was a clue hidden somewhere in this castle that would tell me why.

My stolen watch beeped, breaking my train of thought.

Seven minutes.

I was wasting time.

I looked around the room for something valuable. There was too much space to decorate every inch. Art and Bea must have thought the same and chose to keep it simple. A loveseat faced the bed, aligned directly with the center.

I wonder…

A few years ago, Erin was curious about threesomes so she convinced me to watch a video with her. The first two videos were nothing special. I forced myself through them since Erin thought they were hot. But then we stumbled upon one that I’d never forgotten. For his anniversary, a woman gifted her husband his fantasy—to watch her with another man. I watched him watch his best friend and wife make love from a love seat very much like this.

Would Art enjoy seeing his wife make love to another man? Or maybe he just liked to watch her…

Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!

Getting caught in a fantasy allowed another seven minutes to pass by. I tore my gaze away from the love seat and reset my watch. I looked around and finally found what I was looking for. There were two doors adjacent to the bed. The door on the far left was open so I could clearly see it was a bathroom. The other was closed. I quickly moved toward it and pushed open the door.

Bingo.

This time, I didn’t waste time admiring the grandeur. I ventured deeper inside the closet with my eye on the island at the center. I ripped open the first drawer. Inside were an array of watches and rings.

Jackpot.

Snatching up the watch with the most bling, I stuffed it in my pocket, shoved the drawer closed, and ran from the room.

The safe my father was after three years ago is hidden behind a painting in the second-floor study. At the time, I didn’t think the hiding spot was very original, but now I just found it convenient.

The main hallway curved past the balcony and led to the west wing. Off to the right was another short hallway that led to the study. The doors were locked when I twisted the doorknob, so I fished the torque and tension wrench from my back pocket and knelt. After much poking and prodding, I felt the pins give.

My watch went off again and the end of another seven minutes broke through my victory.

Shit.

The doors to the study matched the front doors but weren’t as heavy. When I walked through them, I was half expecting the ghost of Arturo Knight to be waiting on the other side, but all I found was a massive desk in front of oversized windows. Parallel to the desk was a brown leather couch that spanned the length of the desk. On the left wall, a bookcase was built into the length of the wall, and on the opposite wall were paintings decorating the space.

Thinking I’d miscounted, I counted the frames again and found six, perfectly spaced paintings. Daddy had said there would only be five. The paintings were large and probably weighed at least half my body weight.

I slumped against the door.

My father had been right.

I had no skill to move on a job like this without a plan. Naively, I’d given myself ten minutes to get in and out. Thirty minutes had gone by, and I was no closer to getting in that safe than I was when I started.

I straightened from the door and moved until I was standing in front of the first painting of a man I didn’t recognize. The hook holding up the painting was too high for me to reach. I moved to the second and then the third and so on until I came to the fifth painting. The familiar features of a man I hadn’t seen in years were captured with skillful accuracy.

Arturo Knight.

A chill passed through me at the same time the watch beeped again. I reset it and frantically searched for leverage and found a single seat chair decorating the corner to my right. The elegantly carved legs and back and a decorated cushion of the chair weren’t meant to be besmirched as a ladder, but it would have to do. I dragged it to the painting of my dead godfather and planted my dirty, torn chucks on the cushion. Stretching to the tips of my toes, my fingers were able to reach the top of the frame where the hook sunk in.

Lifting the heavy painting was harder than I originally judged but with a grunt and sheer will power, I removed it.

Holding it, however, while I stared at the empty space was impossible. The painting slipped from my fingers and crashed to the wooden floor.