The man shook his head and extended his hand. “I am Felix Yost,” he said. “I studied for two years in the United States, at the Getty Museum in California.” Seth took the man’s hand and shook it. Yost’s grip was fleshy but firm and warm. “I welcome every opportunity to maintain my fluency in your language.”

Seth nodded. “I’m Seth Ridgeway,” he said. “I called several days ago and spoke with your father about… about a painting.” He watched the beginnings of a frown start to appear and then vanish from Yost’s face. Seth reached for his wallet and pulled from it the snapshot of the painting that Weinstock had given him.

“I wish to speak to your father about this painting.” He handed it to the fleshy young man, who studied the photograph with hooded eyes. There was a long silence. From across the gallery floor, Seth could hear the two white-haired women arguing. One wanted a painting because it was a valuable investment. The other called it an eyesore.

“But dear, what a remarkably valuable eyesore,” her friend replied. They continued in this vein as the silence between Seth and Yost grew increasingly uncomfortable. The young man seemed reluctant to look up from the photo.

“When I called earlier, I was told your father would be happy to meet with me,” Seth said finally.

What Felix Yost did next took Seth completely unaware.

“Here!” Yost hissed as he thrust the photograph back at Ridgeway. “Take your filth and leave us alone.”

Seth took the photo and stared blankly at Yost.

“Are you deaf?” Yost asked. “We are decent people and we will not be forever haunted by one mistake forty years ago. Get out of here! Get out of here now or I’ll be forced to call the authorities.”

“Uh…” Seth searched for words that wouldn’t come to mind. What had gone wrong? The name on the back of the painting was his only clue to Zoe, his only way to find out what the painting meant. What had changed Yost’s mind? Had someone talked to him? About what?

Yost grabbed Seth’s upper arm and tried to steer him out of the store. “Please, Mr. Ridgeway, or whomever you say you are, please leave! We don’t want any trouble and we therefore want nothing to do with the painting of which you speak.”

“But why?” Seth shook his arm loose from Yost’s grasp and turned to face him. Yost was a full head shorter than Seth. “I don’t know anything about the painting except that it’s connected with the disappearance of my wife and with the deaths of at least three people.”

Yost’s eyes widened as Seth spoke. “That precisely is why we wish nothing with this painting to do.” Yost’s fluency in English degenerated into patterns of German grammar as his agitation increased. He grabbed Seth again and shoved him toward the door.

“Please not to make me call the police,” Yost pleaded. “But I will if you do not leave.”