Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
I hang up without so much as a goodbye, my pulse now pounding. But I don’t try to call Becker to find out where the hell he is. Instead, I dash across the library and reach beneath the shelf, feeling for the catch that’ll get the secret compartment open. My fumbling fingers hamper my urgency, my curses coming thick and fast. Eventually, the bottom section releases and I waste no time reaching in and feeling for the leather-bound file. Pulling it out, I stare down at the embossed elephants for a few tense seconds before I pull the fastener and flip the book open, going straight to the back where I know the map to be. My pounding pulse ignites the moment I reach the last page and find what I feared I would.
‘You bastard,’ I whisper, staring down at the empty page. No map. Nothing. I don’t bother flicking through the remaining pages. It’ll be a waste of precious time. With my heart in my mouth, I zoom out of the library and race to the kitchen, falling through the door clumsily. Old Mr H and Mrs Potts look up at me from the table, both quite alarmed by my abrupt entrance.
I catch a breath and hit them with my discovery. ‘He’s gone,’ I blurt out, holding up the book. ‘His therapist just called to speak to him about something she wants to buy. He told me he was seeing her today, but she’s not seen him and the map’s gone.’ My panic is rising, the book shaking in my hands. ‘He’s gone to find the sculpture!’
Both of them stare at me, with not a hint of panic on their faces. ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Potts says calmly, lowering the spoonful of carrots she’s holding over Mr H’s plate.
‘Oh dear?’ I mimic, recoiling. Just oh dear? That’s it? ‘Aren’t you wor—’ A flashback hits me – one from Becker’s office this morning. ‘God’s speed,’ I whisper, swinging my panicked face to Becker’s grandfather. Visions. Visions of him hugging Becker bombard my mind. The look he gave his grandson, the hug they shared. ‘You knew?’ I sound accusing, but I simply cannot help it. ‘You knew what he was going to do.’
Becker’s grandfather’s old shoulders drop with his eyes. ‘I knew,’ he confirms.
‘How could you?’ I fall back against the closed door. What’s changed? The old man has constantly expressed his demand for Becker to drop it. To quit with the search.
Gramps gets up from the table, prompting Mrs Potts to rush and assist. She holds onto his arm as he approaches me slowly. My glazed eyes meet his, my shakes getting the better of me. ‘Eleanor, dear, the moment I stepped into his secret room and saw that sketch of Head of a Faun, when I realised Becker forged that treasure, I knew he will never move on until he puts that ghost to rest. That sculpture is a ghost, dear girl. Becker boy needs to find peace, and that damn lost treasure is the only thing that’ll give him peace.’
‘But it might not even be there to be found,’ I point out desperately. ‘He could be putting himself at risk for nothing. Brent Wilson knows he has a fake. He knows Becker pushed the price up and forced him into buying it. Don’t you think he’ll be tailing Becker’s arse?’
He smiles. He actually smiles, and it’s beyond me why. This is awful. ‘Let it be,’ he placates me softly. ‘Let him do his thing. Let him find it and come home to us.’
‘He told me that I’m more important.’ My voice begins to quiver.
‘I’ve no doubt you are, Eleanor. No doubt at all. But do you want to sleep with him every night and know his dreams are invaded by that sculpture? Because they will be, dear girl. Hades have mercy, I still dream of the damn thing myself.’
I withdraw, stunned by his confession. ‘You hate that sculpture,’ I mumble pathetically.
‘I hate that our obsession has hurt my family. It’s the cause of all the heartache, and now I feel like it’s the only thing to cure it. He can’t move on until he finds it, Eleanor. Which means you can’t either.’
I look down at his hand, where his stick has always been glued to him until recently. It’s back in his grasp, but I would put my money on the fact that it’s missing something. ‘You’ve given him your piece of the map, haven’t you?’
‘X marks the spot, dear girl.’
‘And where’s the spot? Where has he gone?’ I’m less scared now, more pissed off. The control I wanted is gone. I wanted to talk to him about this. I wanted us to agree on things, share things. He’s taken it all out of my control.
He smiles. ‘Rome.’
‘Rome?’ I blurt. ‘But Becker spent years there.’