Chapter 3 — First Impressions
Third Person
The Grand Museum loomed above the bustling city square, its stone columns and etched glass glinting in the afternoon sun. Patterns of light danced on the marble steps, fragmented by the passing shadows of tourists and scholars streaming through its grand entrance. Izzy Moretti lingered at the base of the stairs, her fingers tightening around the worn leather portfolio pressed to her chest. The faint hum of city life buzzed around her, but she focused on the imposing façade ahead. She adjusted her grip on the portfolio, her thumb tracing the edge of the leather strap as though grounding herself.
This was not her world. The quiet intimacy of her atelier, with its familiar smells of linseed oil and varnish, felt a universe away from the grandeur of this cultural temple. But the hidden painting in her portfolio weighed heavily, demanding answers she couldn’t find on her own. She took a steadying breath and climbed the steps, her measured pace belying the tension coiled in her chest.
Inside, the air was cool, carrying the faint scent of aged books, varnish, and something metallic—like the echo of history itself. Her boots clicked against the polished marble floors, each step deliberate, calculated. She tucked a strand of chestnut-brown hair behind her ear and approached the information desk, her movements sharp yet composed, as though precision could mask her unease.
“I’m here to see Alexander Whitmore,” she said, her voice calm but clipped.
The attendant, a young man with wire-rimmed glasses and a distracted air, glanced up from his computer. “Dr. Whitmore? He’s in the research wing. Down the corridor, third door on your right.”
Izzy nodded her thanks and followed the directions, her gaze drawn momentarily to the Renaissance gallery as she passed. The portraits seemed to watch her, their painted eyes alive with the stories of their subjects. She paused before one in particular—a young woman in a crimson dress, her necklace a delicate weave of gold filigree that seemed to gleam against the painted fabric. Izzy tilted her head, her trained eye catching the faintest texture of brushstrokes beneath the surface. The perfection of the folds, the vibrant play of light—it reminded her of the hidden masterpiece waiting in her atelier, its luminous layers calling to her like a distant melody.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her portfolio, steadying herself. With a resolute breath, she continued down the corridor, the atmosphere shifting from the grandeur of the gallery to the hushed, academic quiet of the research wing. Rows of towering bookshelves framed the space, their leather-bound spines glinting in the dim light. The faint scratch of pen on paper drifted from somewhere at the far end of the room. Izzy hesitated for a moment, adjusting the strap of her portfolio before stepping forward.
It was there that she saw him, hunched over a table cluttered with papers and books. His disheveled dark blonde hair caught the light as he scribbled into a leather journal, oblivious to her presence. The scene felt almost suspended in time, the quiet intensity of his focus drawing her attention.
“Dr. Whitmore?” Izzy ventured, her voice steady but soft.
The man looked up sharply, his piercing blue eyes flicking to her with a mix of curiosity and wariness. He was younger than she’d expected—mid-thirties, perhaps—with a lean frame and an air of restless energy. His rumpled button-down shirt and tweed blazer gave him the look of someone who spent more time chasing ideas than appearances. A faint smudge of ink stained his fingers, and Izzy noted the quick, assessing glance he gave her, as though cataloging her presence before she’d even spoken another word.
“You must be Isabella Moretti,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with caution. He rose and extended a hand. “Alex Whitmore.”
“Just Izzy,” she replied, shaking his hand briefly. His grip was firm but unassuming, his ink-stained fingers warm despite their roughened edges. A man of details, she thought, though his outward appearance suggested a deliberate disregard for them.
“Please, have a seat.” Alex gestured to the chair across from him, clearing a space on the table by nudging aside an abandoned sandwich and a stack of loose papers. The clutter was almost calculated, as though chaos itself had its own order here.
Izzy set her portfolio down carefully, unclasping the leather strap with practiced precision. Her fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before withdrawing the photograph of the hidden painting. She slid it across the table, her hazel eyes meeting Alex’s with a mix of determination and vulnerability.
“I found this beneath a 19th-century portrait I’m restoring,” she began, her voice steady but low. “The technique, the brushwork—it’s unlike anything I’ve seen. And these initials…” Her voice faltered, her fingers briefly tightening on the edge of the portfolio. “They match my father’s.”
Alex leaned forward, his blue eyes narrowing as he picked up the photograph. His fingers traced its edge, his brow furrowing. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the image with an intensity that seemed to draw the air from the room. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, almost contemplative.
“This is… remarkable,” he murmured, his eyes flicking back to the photograph. “The brushwork—it’s bold, almost experimental. The light—it’s evocative of a transition period, as though the artist was caught between two styles. But you understand what you’re suggesting.” He glanced at her, his voice softening just slightly. “If this is authentic, it could be a lost work by a legendary artist—or a very convincing forgery.”
Izzy’s jaw tightened, and she folded her hands in her lap, her fingers brushing against the faint paint stains on her jeans. “That’s why I need your expertise. You’ve studied forgeries, the techniques and tells that others miss. If anyone can help me authenticate this, it’s you.”
Alex leaned back, his expression guarded but thoughtful. “You’ve done your research,” he said, a faint note of dry humor undercutting his skepticism. “But you should know, I’m not exactly the art world’s favorite consultant these days. Working with me… it could raise questions—about you, about the painting, about why you turned to someone with my reputation.”
“I’m not concerned about reputations,” Izzy replied, her tone precise, almost clipped. “I’m concerned with the truth.”
A flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossed Alex’s face before he turned his attention back to the photograph. He reached for his journal, flipping through pages filled with sketches and notations until he found a blank space. With quick, fluid strokes, he began sketching the composition of the hidden painting, his movements precise despite the casual air he projected.
“This brushwork,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, “it’s almost defiant. And these initials…” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “If this was your father’s, it raises questions. Why was it hidden? Who would have gone to such lengths to obscure it?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Izzy said, her voice firm. “But I can’t do it alone.”
Alex hesitated, his gaze flicking between her and the photograph. Something in his expression softened, though his tone remained cautious. “All right. I’ll help you. But you need to understand, this won’t be easy. The art world doesn’t take kindly to disruptions, especially when they threaten powerful interests.”
“I’m not afraid of a challenge,” Izzy replied, a hint of steel in her voice. “I’ve spent my life uncovering layers others have tried to hide. This is no different.”
Alex allowed himself a faint, crooked smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Then we’ll start with this.” He tapped the photograph. “I’ll cross-reference it with my notes on forgery techniques and artists of the period. And I’ll need to see the painting itself.”
“Come by my atelier tomorrow,” Izzy said, rising. “I’ll have it ready.”
As she gathered her portfolio and turned toward the door, Alex’s voice stopped her. “Izzy,” he said, his tone low but firm.
She glanced back, her hazel eyes meeting his. “Yes?”
“Be careful,” he said, his expression unreadable. “If this painting is as significant as it seems, it will attract attention—not all of it welcome.”
Izzy nodded, her resolve hardening. “I can handle it.”
The sunlight outside the museum was dazzling, but Izzy barely noticed. Her mind churned with possibilities, the weight of the hidden painting pressing heavier than ever. For the first time since uncovering it, though, she felt a flicker of hope. Alex Whitmore might be a man with a tarnished reputation, but he saw what others missed. Together, they might peel back the layers of deception and uncover the truth—no matter the cost.
