Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
But I’m still standing here, cringing. Becker must know they’ll find out sooner or later. The news of Brent Wilson getting his smarmy hands on Head of a Faun would be top gossip in the antiquing world.
Mrs Potts steps forward, her head lowering, her eyes narrowing. ‘Where is it?’
‘Wilson bought it.’ Becker confesses before chomping on another bit of apple.
‘For the love of Achilles.’ Mr H is up from the table again, this time like a lightning bolt, his anger taking years off him. He’s mad. Very mad. Seething, in fact. His face has gone bright red. ‘Becker, I told you it’s done. Ancient history. Let it go.’
‘I can’t,’ Becker splutters, pieces of apple firing from his mouth. ‘It’s harmless. Just a joke.’
Becker’s grandad wobbles on the spot, but it has nothing to do with his unstable legs. ‘And how much did that harmless joke cost Wilson?’
Becker’s mouth snaps shut, and he glances at me. I gulp, thinking his grandad might have a heart attack if he knows that bit. But again, surely he’s going to find out one way or another. Why’s Becker looking at me, anyway? This has nothing to do with me. ‘Less than they took from us,’ he whispers.
My eyes dart between the men. Less than they took from us? What’s going on here?
‘How much?’ Mr H roars, but Becker doesn’t even flinch. He stares at me, and when I glimpse across the kitchen, I find Mr H and Mrs Potts watching me closely, too. I shake my head, unsure whether I’m trying to convince them I don’t know, or I simply don’t want to tell them.
‘Well?’ Mr H asks, planting his palms on the table and leaning in towards me.
I laugh now, nervous as shit, looking to Becker for help. He just stares at me.
‘You were with him all day, Eleanor. Don’t play ignorant. How much?’
‘I . . . it’s—’
‘Tell me, or I swear on Odysseus, I’ll get really mad.’
He’s not already? ‘Fifty million,’ I blurt out, shooting Becker an apologetic look, noting the disbelieving drop of his head on his shoulders. Holy Greek god. Becker’s grandad’s already seething. I’m not stoking his anger by refusing the information he’s demanding. He’ll find out soon enough anyway.
‘Fifty million,’ he bellows, actually sounding like a Greek god shouting from the heavens. ‘Fifty bleedin’ million!’
I’ve tipped him over the edge. I recoil and back away, fearing for Becker’s life.
‘Calm down, Donald,’ Mrs Potts says, trying to push him down into his seat. ‘You’ll have a funny turn.’
He shakes her off, finding strength in his anger, and marches over to his grandson, using his stick to wave threateningly at Becker. ‘You promised me. You promised to let bygones be bygones. No more games.’
‘He’s a fucking prick,’ Becker retorts, but his grandad doesn’t back off. No, he gives his grandson a whack with his stick in temper. Becker jumps back in shock. ‘Fuck, Gramps.’
‘We agreed,’ he yells. ‘Declare the fake, give the museum the map, and wash our hands of it.’
‘I’m not giving up that map. I’m going to find the sculpture, Gramps.’
‘At what cost? Your great-grandfather, your father, we all searched for years. It can’t be found. Your damn father didn’t listen to me. And look what happened to him. Looking for that stupid sculpture. I will not lose you, too.’
‘He’s dead because of the Wilsons,’ Becker growls, shaking with rage. ‘Dad was pushed to make stupid decisions. I won’t make that same mistake. Wilson thinks he has the sculpture. Now I can find it without him following me around the fucking world.’
I step back, shocked, Becker’s words coming back to me.
Less than they took from us.
The Wilsons took a fucking lot. Like his father’s life? It’s clicking together like a slow-forming puzzle, and I’m beginning to grasp the enormity of what I’m witnessing. A wannabe Indiana Jones tailing Becker around the world. Brent’s dad also tailed Becker’s father while he searched for the sculpture. They think the Wilsons had something to do with Becker’s father’s death? How?
‘Enough,’ Grandad roars. ‘No more. You. Will. Forget.’
‘I fucking can’t,’ Becker yells back. ‘How can you ask me to do that? How can you do that?’
‘Because it will eat me alive from the inside out for the rest of my godforsaken life, that’s why. And it will you.’
‘It already has.’ Becker throws his apple maliciously across the kitchen and stalks out.
I feel like an intruder. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have heard that. But Becker put me here. He wanted me to know all of this. He wanted me here when the shit hit the fan with his gramps. Good God, does he simply want one person in this world to understand his plight and support his quest? Do I? I thought I did, but now? Now I’ve heard how serious this rivalry is, I’m not sure.