“Don’t be ridiculous.” April blew her nose. “I know you’re tough. You’ve been through some rough patches, but nothing like this. You’re not a robot. Our friend was horribly murdered. Anyone who doesn’t react to that is lacking a heart. You’re not weak; you’re human.”

Louisa looked up. She wasn’t the tough one in the room. April took that credit. Living with sorrow was much harder than holding on to denial.

April pressed her fingers under her eyes. Anger glittered. “It has to be someone with the museum or university.”

“Maybe.”

“I guess there isn’t anything we can do besides spread the word for the students to stay in groups and be extra careful.” April sniffed.

“No.” Louisa had never felt so helpless. Or useless. Or disorganized. “I haven’t checked my calendar. What’s going on here today?”

“Not much. Director Cusack scheduled a staff meeting this morning before we open. Attendance is mandatory.” April’s lips flattened. “God forbid anything interferes with the museum’s schedule.”

Louisa sighed. Her sinuses throbbed. She opened her desk drawer and searched for her small bottle of ibuprofen. “Have you seen my Advil?”

“No.” April snatched a tissue from the box on Louisa’s desk and wiped her wet cheeks. “I have some in my desk.”

“Thanks.”

April plucked a few more tissues from the box and stuffed them in her pocket. “We need to get to the staff meeting anyway.”

Fifteen minutes later, two dozen employees packed the conference room, some sitting at the long table, the rest crowding behind chairs. Standing in the corner, leaning on a credenza, Louisa sipped coffee in a desperate bid to clear the sad ache behind her eyes, which three ibuprofen hadn’t alleviated. Next to her, April dabbed puffy red eyes with a folded tissue. Most of the staff wore similar tear-streaked expressions of disbelief and sorrow.

Dr. Cusack cleared his throat. Hands laced behind his back, he paced the front of the room. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about Zoe and Isa.”

A small sob punctuated his opening statement.

Cusack’s frown deepened. “I’ve decided to move the opening of the Celtic Warrior exhibit back to December.” His eyes sought Louisa’s. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hancock, it can’t be helped. Considering recent developments, hosting a big party would make the museum look callous, as if we didn’t care.”

Louisa tipped her head and spoke in a raspy voice. “I agree one hundred percent.” Which sounded much better than what she was actually thinking: I couldn’t care less about the exhibit.