After my mother’s funeral, I inherited her favorite but old painting, while my sister got her three vacation homes…

At home, she first pulled the painting wrapped in the blanket from under the bed. She unwrapped it on the couch. Now she looked at the darkened canvas with completely different eyes.

It was not just an autumn landscape. It was the last dawn. She peered into the rough strokes, the dull colors, trying to see the genius of Sinclair beneath them.

But she saw nothing. Apparently, Mom did a good job hiding the masterpiece. Next to the painting, she placed the certificate and the accounting notebook.

Papers and canvas. Now this was her reality. And her huge, frightening problem.

What to do next? Go to the police? To a museum? Tell Alex? The last thought caused her icy horror. He who broke the frame over a few vacation homes—what would he do learning the true price of this thing? He wouldn’t just take it. He would destroy it, sell it to the first buyer, do anything to immediately turn it into money.

No, she needed advice. But not from just anyone. She needed someone who would understand, who knew this world, and who could be trusted.

And there was such a person. Samuel Peters. An old friend of her mother’s, a retired art historian, caustic but incredibly smart old man.

Mom had been friends with him since university days. It was he who instilled in her a love for books and painting. Elena found his number in her mother’s old address book.

Her hands trembled as she dialed the digits. Hello, came a dry, creaky voice on the line. Samuel? Hello.

This is Elena Harper, daughter of Mary Harper. There was a pause on the other end. Lena! Hello, child! Accept my condolences.

Your mother was an amazing person. Thank you, Samuel. I’m calling on business.

Very, very strange business. I need your help. It concerns one of Mom’s paintings.

A painting? Curiosity sounded in his voice. That very one that hung over her dresser. Elena was amazed at his memory.

Yes, exactly that one. I can’t talk on the phone. Can we meet?

They agreed to meet at her restoration workshop. It was her sanctuary, a small semi-basement room smelling of old paper, leather, and glue. Here she felt safe.

Samuel came exactly at the appointed time. Thin, straight, in an old-fashioned but perfectly clean jacket. He surveyed the workshop with approval.

A good place. Real. Your mother would be proud of you.

But show me what this secret of the Madrid court is. Elena silently took the certificate and notebook from the folder and placed them before him on the large work table. Samuel put on his glasses, took the yellowed document in his hands.

He read slowly, his eyebrows crept up. Then he reread it again. Set aside the certificate, took the notebook, flipped through it, frowning at the incomprehensible entries.

Then he took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, put them back on, and stared at the certificate for the third time. My girl, he said finally, and his voice dropped. Do you understand what this is? I think yes, Elena whispered.

You don’t think. Vincent Sinclair. Last Dawn.

All the museums in the world have been looking for it. Its trail disappeared in 1919 in New York during the Red Scare. It was thought to have been either burned or taken abroad and settled in a private collection that no one would ever know about.

And it—it hung over Mary’s dresser. He stood up and walked around the workshop. Now I understand her strange trips, her eternal secrets.

She didn’t just own it. She kept it. These entries in the notebook are not nonsense.

This is the history of its movements, I’m almost sure. It needs time to decipher. He stopped and looked at Elena seriously, without a hint of senile eccentricity.

To no one. Do you hear, Elena? Not a single soul. Not your husband, not your sister, no one.

This is not just money. This is very big money. And big money is big problems.

I’ll help you. We must act very carefully. First, we need to conduct an examination of the canvas itself.

Discreetly. And at that very time, Elena’s sister Olivia was driving in her shiny foreign car out of town. She was on cloud nine.

Three vacation homes. Especially the one in Forest Glades. A new prestigious suburb.

Perfect place for summer parties. She already imagined inviting all her circle—successful girlfriends, useful people from her husband’s company. Let them see, let them envy.

Poor Elena with her dusty painting. Olivia even felt a pang of pity. But nothing.

Maybe she’ll throw her some money later when she sells the oldest plot. She turned to the familiar gate. The house looked magnificent.

Two stories, panoramic windows, manicured lawn. Olivia got out of the car, inhaling the clean pine air. She was already taking out her phone to call the designer when suddenly the gate opened, and an unfamiliar man in a strict business suit approached her.

Not at all like a guard or gardener. Olivia Patton? He asked politely but firmly.

Yes, that’s me, she replied with slight arrogance, expecting this was someone from the suburb administration with congratulations. My name is Voronov, I represent the security service of Progress Invest Bank. He handed her a business card.

We were notified by the notary of your entry into inheritance rights. Olivia frowned uncomprehendingly. What bank? What’s the bank got to do with it? Your late mother Mary Harper was our client.

This real estate object, as well as the other two in Veterans Community and Birch Shore suburb, is pledged to the bank. Olivia felt as if doused with ice water. Pledged? What nonsense? My mother was a simple pensioner, she couldn’t take a loan for all this.

The man maintained imperturbable calm. Nevertheless, it is so. Over the last eight years, Mary Harper took three large loans secured by this property.

Currently, the total debt amount, including interest, is, he glanced at his tablet, 2.74 million dollars. Payments haven’t been received for three months. If the debt is not repaid, the bank will be forced to start the recovery procedure and sale of the collateral property.

2.74 million. This figure buzzed in Olivia’s ears, displacing all other thoughts. It wasn’t just a vacation home.

It was a trap. A financial trap left to her by her own mother. Mysterious expenses—that’s where the money went.

She didn’t even remember how she got in the car and drove back to the city. Her dream of luxurious life collapsed, turning into a nightmare with a gigantic debt. Rage and resentment choked her.

Mother deceived her. Slipped her not a gift but a debt pit, while Elena got some useless painting and no problems.

Arriving home, she immediately dialed her sister’s number. The beeps seemed like eternity. Yes, Elena answered.

Elena, we have huge problems, Olivia blurted out without any preambles. These vacation homes, they’re all pledged. Mother took loans for 2.74 million.

Silence hung on the line. Do you hear me? Olivia screamed. We need to do something.

They’ll take everything from us. I—I don’t know what to say, Olivia. I’m very sorry.

Sorry, she screeched. I don’t need your sorry. We need to sell Mom’s apartment.

Immediately. That’s the only way to cover at least part of the debt. Elena was silent for a few seconds.

And then Olivia heard her sister’s quiet but surprisingly firm voice. A voice she had never heard before. No.

What no? Olivia was stunned. I won’t sell Mom’s apartment. That’s a memory too.

I won’t allow it. What memory? Have you lost your mind? You got your stupid painting and you’re sitting pretty, and I have to clean up all this mess? But Elena was adamant. She quietly said something about needing to think and hung up.

Olivia sat clutching the phone. Rage turned into cold, calculating fury. No? She said no?

Her quiet, spineless little sister suddenly learned to say no. It was so strange, so unlike her. Where did such confidence come from? And then something clicked in her head.

The painting. That stupid, unwanted painting. Her mother who pulled off a scam with loans for millions.

Her sister who suddenly gained a steel voice. It was all connected. Elena knows something.

Something she doesn’t know. Her fingers dialed another number on their own. Her sister’s husband’s number.

Alex? He’ll definitely be on her side. Alex? This is Olivia. I have bad news.

And one idea. She quickly outlined the situation with the debts to him, not forgetting to mention Elena’s strange refusal. She’s behaving inadequately, Olivia concluded, carefully choosing words.

She’s clinging to this painting like a madwoman. Alex? I’m sure Elena is hiding something. Something related to this painting…