THE LIE THAT WORE A RING - Chapter 31: Chapter 31
You are reading THE LIE THAT WORE A RING, Chapter 31: Chapter 31. Read more chapters of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING.
Some answers hide in plain sight—waiting for the right moment to strike.
The weekend art retreat was nestled in a quiet lakeside camp two hours outside the city. Tall pine trees bordered the cabins, and the air smelled like fresh paint, bark, and late spring.
Ava didn’t talk much on the bus ride there. She sketched quietly in her notebook—people, plants, quick portraits. She was good at watching. At reading between the lines.
She had to be. Growing up under Alina’s shadow taught her that.
But no amount of watching prepared her for what happened during the second afternoon workshop.
The instructor introduced a guest speaker: a woman in her late thirties with sharp cheekbones, a silk scarf, and eyes that didn’t smile with her mouth.
Her name was Marin Wolfe. She was an art critic, published in several high-profile magazines. Her portfolio was impressive. Her presence, magnetic.
But Ava's stomach dropped the moment she saw her.
She knew that face.
Not from TV. Not from magazines.
From a photo.
One of the ones her father had found in the envelope.
The one where Alina was standing outside the law office—handing a file to this woman.
Ava’s pencil froze mid-sketch.
Marin spoke smoothly about symbolism in art. About painting emotions that were too sharp to name. But Ava wasn’t listening.
She was remembering.
Remembering a whispered conversation she once overheard between Alina and someone on the phone.
Something about “our plan” and “the Carter name being leverage.”
Something Ava hadn’t understood then.
She did now.
And she realized this wasn’t just coincidence.
Marin wasn’t here to teach.
She was watching.
That night, Ava pretended to be asleep until her cabinmate started snoring.
Then she slipped out with her phone and crept through the wooded path toward the main lodge’s Wi-Fi signal.
She called her dad.
It rang twice before he picked up.
“Ava? Everything okay?”
“No,” she whispered. “Dad, I need to tell you something. Someone’s here. Her name’s Marin Wolfe. She was in one of the pictures you found.”
There was silence on the line.
Then Nicholas said, “She’s the woman Alina met outside that law firm.”
Ava nodded. “She’s not just a critic. I don’t think she’s here for art.”
“Stay close to the group. Don’t be alone with her. I’m coming to get you in the morning.”
Ava hesitated.
“Dad… I don’t want to leave. Not yet. I think I can figure out what she wants. I need to be strong enough to handle this.”
Nicholas swallowed hard. She sounded so steady. So sure.
He hated it—but he respected it.
“Text me every hour,” he said. “If anything feels wrong, I’m there. No questions.”
“I will.”
The next morning, Marin approached Ava during breakfast.
“Your sketches are sharp,” she said with a tight smile. “You’ve been through something. I can tell.”
Ava met her gaze. “So have you. But yours doesn’t look like healing. It looks like strategy.”
Marin blinked—just briefly.
Then she smiled wider. “Smart girl.”
Ava returned the smile, heart pounding.
She didn’t know what Marin’s game was, but she was playing it now. Not out of fear.
Out of control.
Back at home, Nicholas stared at his desk, rereading the note from the envelope:
“You were never the target. You were the weapon.”
And now he knew who had helped hold the strings.
Marin Wolfe.
Whoever she really was… this wasn’t over.
The weekend art retreat was nestled in a quiet lakeside camp two hours outside the city. Tall pine trees bordered the cabins, and the air smelled like fresh paint, bark, and late spring.
Ava didn’t talk much on the bus ride there. She sketched quietly in her notebook—people, plants, quick portraits. She was good at watching. At reading between the lines.
She had to be. Growing up under Alina’s shadow taught her that.
But no amount of watching prepared her for what happened during the second afternoon workshop.
The instructor introduced a guest speaker: a woman in her late thirties with sharp cheekbones, a silk scarf, and eyes that didn’t smile with her mouth.
Her name was Marin Wolfe. She was an art critic, published in several high-profile magazines. Her portfolio was impressive. Her presence, magnetic.
But Ava's stomach dropped the moment she saw her.
She knew that face.
Not from TV. Not from magazines.
From a photo.
One of the ones her father had found in the envelope.
The one where Alina was standing outside the law office—handing a file to this woman.
Ava’s pencil froze mid-sketch.
Marin spoke smoothly about symbolism in art. About painting emotions that were too sharp to name. But Ava wasn’t listening.
She was remembering.
Remembering a whispered conversation she once overheard between Alina and someone on the phone.
Something about “our plan” and “the Carter name being leverage.”
Something Ava hadn’t understood then.
She did now.
And she realized this wasn’t just coincidence.
Marin wasn’t here to teach.
She was watching.
That night, Ava pretended to be asleep until her cabinmate started snoring.
Then she slipped out with her phone and crept through the wooded path toward the main lodge’s Wi-Fi signal.
She called her dad.
It rang twice before he picked up.
“Ava? Everything okay?”
“No,” she whispered. “Dad, I need to tell you something. Someone’s here. Her name’s Marin Wolfe. She was in one of the pictures you found.”
There was silence on the line.
Then Nicholas said, “She’s the woman Alina met outside that law firm.”
Ava nodded. “She’s not just a critic. I don’t think she’s here for art.”
“Stay close to the group. Don’t be alone with her. I’m coming to get you in the morning.”
Ava hesitated.
“Dad… I don’t want to leave. Not yet. I think I can figure out what she wants. I need to be strong enough to handle this.”
Nicholas swallowed hard. She sounded so steady. So sure.
He hated it—but he respected it.
“Text me every hour,” he said. “If anything feels wrong, I’m there. No questions.”
“I will.”
The next morning, Marin approached Ava during breakfast.
“Your sketches are sharp,” she said with a tight smile. “You’ve been through something. I can tell.”
Ava met her gaze. “So have you. But yours doesn’t look like healing. It looks like strategy.”
Marin blinked—just briefly.
Then she smiled wider. “Smart girl.”
Ava returned the smile, heart pounding.
She didn’t know what Marin’s game was, but she was playing it now. Not out of fear.
Out of control.
Back at home, Nicholas stared at his desk, rereading the note from the envelope:
“You were never the target. You were the weapon.”
And now he knew who had helped hold the strings.
Marin Wolfe.
Whoever she really was… this wasn’t over.
End of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING Chapter 31. Continue reading Chapter 32 or return to THE LIE THAT WORE A RING book page.