And it was a debt well worth it. Running into Lane, literally, had been the highlight of an already long day. And it might have been the exhaustion he felt, but Charlie swore he saw a spark light her eyes when she insisted he stop by for breakfast. Or did he want to see that? Lane Kent was married. And the breakfast offer wasn’t just for him. It was for the entire station. He blew out a breath. Definitely exhaustion.

“No biggie.” Pushing up his glasses, Deputy Frost looked away from the computer screen. “I think I found something.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie took a seat in front of the desktop computer, their sandwiches forgotten.

Frost’s thin fingers moved nimbly over the keyboard before a Facebook page filled the screen. “Check it out.”

Charlie leaned forward. The name on the account was Saint Denis. The cover photo was of a redbrick wall lined with paintings in bold strokes of greens and blues. In the corner was a smaller black-and-white image of a woman who was not Sydney Donovan but the iconic Audrey Hepburn. “Who is Saint Denis?”

“Not just a who”—Frost adjusted his glasses again as he resumed typing—“but also a location.”

“A location?”

“A cathedral in Paris, France.” Frost pulled up a screen filled with information and photos of an old gothic church. “Saint Denis was decapitated. There’s a story that he picked his head up and carried it six miles. Look.”

Sure enough, there was a photo of a stone statue with wings holding a head in its hands. “Does this have something to do with Sydney?”

“I’ve traced the account back to her.”

“Legally?”

“Mostly.” Frost returned to the Facebook page. “It’s a private account, so I can’t show you anything more than what’s been made public until I talk with the FBI. There’s an album here, but it’s mostly photos of art. Paintings.”

Charlie watched Frost scroll through the album. Each click displayed the bold colors of painting after painting. Why would Sydney Donovan have a private Facebook account full of pictures of art? Was she an artist? He didn’t remember seeing anything in her room to indicate a love of art. No painting supplies. No books on art. No posters of abstract paintings beside the photos of Hollywood hunks taped over her bed.

“Who’s the artist?”

“I tried enlarging the photos, but as far as I can tell there’s no signature. At least not that I can see,” Frost said.

Charlie blew out a frustrated breath. An account tracing back to Sydney Donovan with pictures of art meant what? She was a budding artist? A hidden artist? Did her parents know?

“Wait, stop. Go back.” Charlie squinted at the screen. “Click on that.”

“You want to like the picture?” Frost’s glasses slipped down his nose as he frowned.

“No. I want to see who liked it.”