"I know."
The honesty irritated me because I wanted someone to make it easy to hate him. Instead he looked tired and miserable. I pointed toward the folder. "Is that the authorization?"
He handed it to me. The first page contained a formal consignment request naming me as owner of the Riverlight collection, Tessa as authorized representative, and Northline Private Collections as the proposed selling agent. The release was dated last Thursday. My signature appeared on the final page, written in a careful approximation of the way I signed workshop invoices.
I stared at it. It looked enough like my handwriting that a stranger might have accepted it without thinking. But the curve of the D was wrong, and the line beneath my surname continued too far to the right. More importantly, I knew I had never seen that document before.
"I didn't sign this," I said.
Adrian nodded. "I believe you."
"You didn't last night."
He looked down. "No. I didn't."
"Why change your mind?"
He hesitated. "Because Tessa told me you knew the collection was being moved, and then she sent me a message after the loading started saying you couldn't find out until Sunday. I asked her what that meant. She told me not to ask questions."
I felt sick. "And you still waited?"
"About ten minutes. Long enough to realize I'd been lying to myself about what was happening. Then I called you."
"Ten minutes," I repeated. "That's how long you considered whether to help steal my father's work?"