King Me (Forever Wilde 7)

“I got it,” King interrupted, standing up and kissing his grandfathers on the cheeks. “I promise. I’ll only be gone a couple of days. Don’t leave.”

MJ’s face softened into one of maternal concern. “I’m not going anywhere. Memorize my number like I told you.”

King leaned in to kiss hers and Neckie’s cheeks too. “I love you too, big sis.”

I gave everyone a wave and told them it was nice meeting them. I hoped like hell the next time I saw MJ wasn’t in a Hungarian courtroom.

As we made our way out of the restaurant into the cold December air, King wrapped a scarf around his neck before reaching for my hand and threading his fingers between mine.

“I like them,” I said. “They’re sassy like you.”

He chuckled. “My baby sister’s name is Sassy, so I always think of her when someone uses that word.”

We made our way two blocks over to the nearest Metro entrance and descended into the warmth of the station. Once we were seated on the train, King surprised me.

“Tell me why you don’t have a family.”

“Oh… ah… well, I was what they used to call a change-of-life baby. My parents were in their fifties when they had me. They’d spent years trying to start a family, but it never happened. Then when my mom thought she was going through menopause, it turned out she was pregnant with me.

“Needless to say I was an only child, and by the time I went to college, my parents were in their seventies. My dad died of a stroke when I was at the academy, and my mom died of pneumonia about five years ago. It was right after Luca and I broke up. That’s why I took the job here. I just… wanted to leave it all behind. I was gutted. I went from thinking I was finally going to settle down and give my mom grandkids, and suddenly Luca was gone and then she was gone too.”

“I’m sorry,” King said. I could hear the sincerity in his voice. “I had like… the opposite experience. I can’t even begin to know what it’s like not to have tons of family around. You must feel… unanchored.”

I shrugged, pulling his hand onto my lap so I could hold it with both of mine. “Even when both of my parents were around, it was a small, quiet family. It’s why I chose to go to school at Michigan State. They have a great criminal justice program, but they also have a huge student body. I wanted to be around people and energy. I craved it.”

“How did you get into the art side of it?”

The train reached our stop, so we stood to exit with several other people. “That part was more of a fluke. I took an art history class as an elective freshman year and loved it. I ended up taking so many more art history classes, I had almost enough to double major. So I added the French classes and made it happen. Once I had the double criminal justice and art history, it was a no-brainer.”

As we walked through the station, we continued talking about our favorite art history classes, specific pieces that had contributed to our love of art, and the aspects of the subject we didn’t like so much. King surprised me when he started talking to me about his independent study of famous forgeries.

“There’s actually this underground layer of art history centered around forgeries,” he explained.

“I’ve read several books about it,” I admitted. “It’s fascinating stuff. Just a tiny bit relevant to what I do for a living,” I teased.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he said, blushing. “It’s just… that’s… I feel silly admitting this, but…” King huffed out a laugh and looked up at the sky for a moment before looking back at me and smiling enough to bring out the dimple next to his lips. “I have a designation… a mark that indicates a forgery is mine.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. I think… I think I want you to know so I can’t… so I won’t be tempted to ever do it again. Now you’ll be able to catch me.”

The admission was surprising, like watching him deliberately tumble down a wall that had been standing between us.

“What’s the mark?”

“I find the most horizontal line closest to the lower left corner of the work and make it bolder.”

The information sat like a weight between us. It was important because it represented his trust in me. It also represented his commitment to his own future away from art crime.

I bumped his shoulder. “Not quite the same thing as a big flourishing signature, is it?”

“Unfortunately, forger marks are pretty damned subtle,” he said with a bashful smile.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said after a minute. “That can’t have been easy.”