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“Good, so far. We’ve arrived in town just a few minutes ago, but I guess you’re seeing it in real time, so you already know this.”

“Yes, I see you’re pulling up to Beatrice’s shop. Listen, I wanted to share the information I found out about the house. Getting Mikhail to open up about any part of this has been damned near impossible. He only broke once he knew Kinsley had no idea you were going there.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

Nik continued, “The house went into foreclosure after the rescue, unpaid property taxes. No family stepped forward to claim it. But that makes sense, as you know, Fedorov took out everyone associated or who had a hand in the kidnappings.”

The rustling of papers sounded as Nik combed through his files. “It sat for years before Mrs. Hawthrone and her husband bought it.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Bella, from what I understand, it hasn’t been touched and stands as it would have when you girls were small.”

I could hear the concern and loved him all the more for it. He was trying to prepare me. I was torn, truthfully, almost wishing it had been gutted and renovated into a modern mansion like ours at home. But from what it sounded like, I would be stepping into the past.

“Keep me posted on what you find, okay? Pasha, you know your role in all this. Keep our girl safe and listen to her cues.”

“I will. We’ve already got some things set in place. Verbal and non. She’s in excellent hands. I won’t let any of you down.”

Pasha flashed me a smile as the car idled. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, providing a comforting rhythmic pattern that calmed me.

“If you need anything, anything at all, call me,” Nik offered.

We said goodbye, and Pasha turned the car off. The patter of raindrops filled the car, and he glanced my way. His amber eyes filled with compassion and understanding.

“You ready?” he asked, breaking the moment.

I let out a slow exhale, my nerves tingling with anticipation. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Without hesitation, Pasha reached for the umbrella resting on the back seat, his movements fluid and deliberate.

“Don’t think of opening that,” he remarked, seeing my hand move.

He opened his side, and with a gentle flick expanded the umbrella. He hurried around and opened my door. He held it above my head as I emerged from the shelter of the car. The raindrops danced around us, but under the canopy of the umbrella, I was cocooned in warmth and protection.

Grateful for his gesture, I offered him a soft smile. My heart fluttered with emotion. He made me feel stronger than I was. Whatever we found, he would be there for me.

Ever the gentleman, he held the shop door open, and I was immediately hit with the aroma of fresh paint and aged wood. My eyes scanned the shop. It was filled with an array of colorful canvases, eclectic trinkets, and vintage treasures.

Each one had its own story, no doubt. Having heard the bell, a small woman with a warm smile stepped forward. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back in a loose bun, and strands of beads were woven into her locks.

“You must be Ms. Caruso,” she greeted me with a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m Beatrice Hawthorne, but please call me Bea. Everyone does. Come with me. Maryann, I’ll be in the back,” Bea addressed a woman I hadn’t seen upon coming in.

She led us through the inviting warmth of her studio. It was charming. Colorful paintings adorned the walls. I loved the vibrant splashes of creativity in the space. I noticed several pieces were signed by her.

“Please make yourselves at home,” she said, gesturing toward a cozy seating area in the corner of her office.

“Are these your paintings?” I was transfixed by one picture in particular. “That one is breathtaking.”

It hung in a what I could only describe as a coveted position in her office. It was majestic. The painting captured the essence of the rugged shoreline, with jagged cliffs jutting out into the turbulent sea below.

The sunset sky was ablaze with hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the landscape. Several seagulls soared overhead. Their graceful silhouettes added to the sense of tranquility, and I could almost hear the sounds they would make.

Beatrice smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, this one has sentimental meaning for me. It was a vacation spot my late husband and I used to visit every summer. There was something so raw and untamed about the location. Do you paint, my dear?”

I nodded, tore my gaze away from the painting, and took a seat. Pasha and I exchanged a glance as he sat next to me. Would my paintings have survived all these years? I was about to find out.

Bea took the seat opposite us, her expression warm. An accordion file sat on the small table to the side of her chair. Inside, it held information. How much of it was she aware of? Her hand reached for the folder.