Chapter 5: The Workshop Nobody Was Supposed to Find
I didn't tell Vanessa what was in the letter.
Instead, I called Eleanor.
She answered immediately.
"Did something happen?""
"Vanessa knows about the Mercer Street property.""
There was a pause.
"That is concerning.""
"She said Dad left me something else.""
Eleanor sighed.
"Then I think it's time you saw the workshop.""
"Can I go today?""
"I'll arrange access.""
Two hours later, I stood outside a narrow brick building on Mercer Street.
It was tucked between a closed furniture store and a small printing company.
The windows were dusty.
A faded metal sign hung above the entrance.
*CARTER PRINT & ART WORKSHOP.*
I stared at it.
The building looked abandoned.
A rusted bicycle leaned against the wall. Weeds had pushed through cracks in the pavement, and the front door was covered with layers of old paint.
Eleanor arrived carrying a small leather briefcase.
"Your father bought this place twelve years ago," she explained.
"Why?""
"He wanted to create a shared workspace for young artists. The foundation eventually moved its activities elsewhere, but he kept the building.""
She unlocked the front door.
The hinges groaned.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, wood, and old paper.
Sunlight entered through tall windows at the back.
There were several worktables, shelves of empty jars, and an enormous industrial sink.
I walked slowly through the room.
It was beautiful.
Even covered in dust, it felt alive.
My father had designed the space carefully.
The tables were positioned near the windows to make use of natural light. There were electrical outlets along every wall, storage cabinets for supplies, and a small office overlooking the main room.
I touched the edge of one worktable.
"Did he build this himself?""
"Most of it.""
I smiled faintly.
"That sounds like him.""
Eleanor opened the office door.
Inside stood a wooden desk, two filing cabinets, and an old computer.
A framed photograph rested against the wall.
My father was standing in the workshop, holding a paintbrush.
Beside him was a teenage girl.
Me.
I was wearing a yellow sweater, my hair tied into two messy ponytails.
I remembered that day.
It had been one of the last times Dad had brought me here.
He had let me paint on the wall.
Mom had been furious when she found out.
Dad had only laughed.
"Art belongs where people can see it," he had told me.
I turned toward Eleanor.
"Can I use this place?""
She smiled.
"It belongs to you.""
I walked to the largest window.
Outside, people moved along the sidewalk, carrying coffee cups and shopping bags.
For the first time, I imagined a future that didn't involve fighting for a corner of my mother's house.
I could work here.
I could paint here.
I could invite other artists.
I could build something that belonged entirely to me.
Then I noticed the locked cabinet beneath the desk.
"What's inside?""
Eleanor examined it.
"I don't know.""
She tried several keys before finding one that fit.
The cabinet opened with a soft click.
Inside were dozens of folders.
Some contained old invoices.
Others held photographs, exhibition programs, and handwritten notes.
At the bottom was a black portfolio case.
I lifted it onto the desk.
The label read:
*MAYA — ORIGINAL WORKS.*
My throat tightened.
I opened it.
Inside were photographs of paintings I had created as a child.
There was a watercolor of our old garden.
A sketch of Dad sitting beside the kitchen window.
A painting of a woman standing beneath a tree.
And underneath them all was a small notebook.
I opened the first page.
My father's handwriting filled the paper.
Things Maya says while painting.
I smiled.
Then I read the first entry.
Today she said the sky looked lonely because nobody had painted a bird in it.
I laughed through my tears.
Another entry:
She says blue is not a sad color. It is a color that has been misunderstood.
I turned another page.
She asked me whether paintings can remember people. I told her they can if the artist puts enough love into them.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I could almost hear his voice.
Then I noticed a photograph tucked between the pages.
It showed my father, my mother, and Vanessa standing outside the workshop.
Vanessa was holding a certificate.
My mother had one arm around her shoulders.
On the back, Dad had written:
Vanessa's first exhibition. I hope she learns that success means more when you don't have to take it from someone else.
I stared at the sentence.
Eleanor read it over my shoulder.
"Your father was worried about something.""
"What?""
"Your sister's relationship with the foundation.""
I turned.
"What do you mean?""
Eleanor opened her briefcase.
She removed a second folder.
"Several months before his death, your father discovered that some of the foundation's funds had been used without proper authorization.""
"By Vanessa?""
"Possibly. But he never completed the investigation.""
"Why not?""
"His health deteriorated rapidly.""
I felt a knot forming in my stomach.
"Did he tell Mom?""
"I believe he did.""
I looked at the photograph.
"That's why she hid the letter.""
Eleanor didn't answer.
I returned to the portfolio.
There was another document at the bottom.
It was an old exhibition agreement dated eight years earlier.
I recognized the painting listed in the description.
The original artwork Vanessa had stolen.
But the artist's name was different.
*MAYA CARTER — AGE 14.*
My mouth fell open.
I had created that painting when I was fourteen.
It had been displayed at the foundation's first public exhibition.
And according to the document, it had won a regional young artist award.
I remembered the award.
I remembered Dad taking me for ice cream afterward.
But I didn't remember receiving the prize money.
I looked at Eleanor.
"Was there a cash award?""
"Yes. Five thousand dollars.""
"Did I receive it?""
She checked the paperwork.
"The payment was issued to the foundation's custodial account.""
"Who controlled that account?""
Eleanor turned the page.
"Your mother.""
I felt my hands tighten.
"How much money did she manage for me?""
"That depends on the year. But we can reconstruct the payments.""
I looked around the workshop.
Suddenly, the building felt less like a gift and more like a crime scene.
Every photograph, every certificate, every forgotten painting seemed connected to something my family had hidden.
I spent the next hour photographing the documents.
Eleanor helped me make a list of missing records.
Then she received a phone call.
She stepped outside to answer it.
I continued searching the cabinet.
Behind the folders, I found a small envelope with my name.
Unlike the first letter, this one had no date.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed a young Vanessa standing in front of a large painting.
She was holding a brush.
My father stood behind her.
On the back, he had written:
The day Vanessa told me she wanted to be an artist.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was something strange about it.
The painting Vanessa stood beside was not hers.
I recognized the brushwork.
I recognized the colors.
It was a copy of one of my early sketches.
I looked closer.
Someone had written a name on the lower edge.
VANESSA CARTER.
My stomach dropped.
This wasn't the first time she had claimed my work.
It had been happening for years.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Eleanor returned.
"Everything all right?""
I held up the photograph.
"Did Vanessa ever study here?""
"Yes. Briefly.""
"Did Dad know she was copying my work?""
Eleanor studied the image.
"I don't know.""
I looked at the photograph again.
"Then I want to know.""
Eleanor nodded.
"We'll need to speak with the former foundation instructors.""
Before she could say anything else, a car horn sounded outside.
A black SUV had stopped in front of the workshop.
Vanessa stepped out.
She was wearing sunglasses and a cream-colored coat.
She walked toward the entrance as though she owned the building.
I stood.
"What is she doing here?""
Eleanor moved beside me.
"Did you tell her we were coming?""
"No.""
Vanessa pushed open the door.
Her eyes went straight to the black portfolio case.
Then to the photograph in my hand.
"Put that down.""
I stared at her.
"Excuse me?""
She removed her sunglasses.
"This building is not yours to search.""
Eleanor stepped forward.
"Actually, it is.""
Vanessa looked at her.
"Who invited you?""
"I am the estate attorney.""
"You're the reason this family is falling apart.""
Eleanor remained calm.
"Your father's legal documents established Maya's ownership of this property.""
Vanessa laughed.
"That building has been empty for years.""
"That doesn't change its ownership.""
Vanessa walked toward the desk.
She picked up one of the folders.
I immediately took it from her.
"Don't touch that.""
Her eyes flashed.
"You're acting like a child.""
"And you're acting like someone who has something to hide.""
She leaned closer.
"Listen, Maya. You don't understand what happened with Dad's foundation.""
"Then explain it.""
She looked at Eleanor.
"I want to speak to my sister alone.""
"That won't be necessary," Eleanor replied.
Vanessa ignored her.
"Mom is willing to make things right.""
I frowned.
"What does that mean?""
"She'll transfer some money to you. Enough to help you open this place.""
I stared at her.
"How much?""
"Ten thousand.""
I almost laughed.
"You stole thirty-six thousand dollars from my scholarship, and now you're offering me ten?""
Vanessa's expression darkened.
"You're going to regret turning this into a legal fight.""
I placed the photograph on the desk.
"Did you copy my paintings when we were younger?""
She glanced at it.
Then she looked away.
"That was a school exercise.""
"Your name is written on my work.""
"Because I helped you.""
I shook my head.
"You're still doing it.""
She stepped toward the portfolio case.
"Give me those documents.""
"No.""
For the first time, her composure cracked.
"Do you know what happens if those records become public?""
I stared at her.
"What happens?""
She lowered her voice.
"People will find out what Dad really did before he died.""
The room went cold.
I looked at Eleanor.
She had gone completely still.
"What are you talking about?"" I asked.
Vanessa picked up her sunglasses.
Then she smiled.
"You should ask Mom why Dad stopped trusting everyone.""
She walked out.
The SUV pulled away.
I turned toward Eleanor.
"Did you know about this?""
She looked at the photograph in my hand.
"Not everything.""
"What does she mean?""
Eleanor slowly closed the portfolio case.
"I think we need to review your father's final financial records.""
I swallowed.
"Why?""
May you like
She looked toward the empty doorway.
"Because if Vanessa is telling the truth, your father's death may have left behind a financial dispute that someone has spent years trying to conceal.""
