Chapter Twenty-Eight
*The Receipt*
The grand foyer of the Lax townhouse was a canyon of cold marble and shadows. Naomi stood with her back to the heavy front door, blocking the exit, her face a mask of pure, panicked rage under the moonlight.
"How?" she hissed, the word sharp as a knife. "How did you get that painting? That scene? You weren't there!"
Lyra stood a few feet away, calm in the eye of the storm. "I have a camera, Mother. With a very good lens. I was in the old watchtower across the pier. You never look up."
Naomi’s eyes widened. "You little spy! That painting... you hand-delivered evidence of a crime to a room full of the most powerful people in this city! You could get me into real trouble! International trouble!"
"I did hand something to a foreigner," Lyra corrected, he
