Poor Riki’s death wouldn’t be her fault. She wouldn’t lose her job—and disappoint her father again. All she had to do was find the knife and prove it wasn’t the murder weapon.

She bypassed her office, then stopped. A light shone from under her door. Puzzled, she checked the doorknob. Locked. She took out her key and went inside. Nothing seemed amiss. The janitor must have forgotten to turn off the light. She switched it off, locked up, and went back into the hall. At the end of the corridor, the elevators banked the left wall.

Louisa and April had double-checked the entire Celtic Warrior exhibit. Other curatorial staff had been asked to inventory the other museum collections, and Director Cusack had assigned the search of miscellaneous prop and costume rooms to office employees. She was sure the office workers had done their best, but the extra storage room was the junk drawer of the museum. A second search couldn’t hurt.

She scanned the packed shelves. Everything from fake rocks to urns to rubber insects was stored up here. Props supplied the details that brought the past to life. Could someone have put the replica knife up here? She sighed. In the back of the room were drawer units to hold smaller pieces. Shelves and drawers were labeled and ordered alphabetically. But she was looking for a misplaced item. It could be anywhere.

She started searching nearest the door, moving methodically from bottom to top, left to right. The shelving units contained the larger pieces, and she moved through them steadily with no sign of the missing knife. Something glittered at the back of a shelf. On her knees, she brushed the fronds of an artificial fern aside. Not the knife. Just a small gold-toned pedestal that might be used to display a piece of pottery or a sculpture. She sat on a step stool, took off a shoe, and rubbed her aching toes. She should have stopped at home to change before beginning her search. But she’d been consumed by the thought that the knife could still be here somewhere.

She’d need to leave soon, though. The dog would have to be walked.

She pulled her phone from her purse and checked the display. She’d been searching the museum for hours. She’d missed a call from Damian, but he’d sent a text: CONOR BEING RELEASED. CALL U TOMORROW.

What did that mean? Were the police charging him? Did he have to post bail?

She dialed Damian back, but the call went to voice mail. She left a message.