“No. I didn’t know her very well.” Jonathan fought, but not really, a knowing little smirk. “Did you?”

“Not really.”

“She was fine as hell, though, wasn’t she? It was a shame to see her cut down like that.”

“Yes.” Owen resisted the tingling in his face that begged for release in a lip curl or a squint.

Jonathan let a quiet beat go on longer than a natural pause. “A real shame, unless it was just that she got caught up in her own plan. That sort of thing is a big risk. And I don’t think she seemed like someone who would have done a lot of that. Do you? She seemed too sweet, I think. And if that sweetness was all just an act, it was probably too easy for her to get her own way with everything else she had going for her. Ooof.” Jonathan let out a slow breath that would have been an appreciative whistle if he’d pursed his lips more. “Maybe that’s why it went wrong, I’m thinking. Some rookie mistake. When I remember Marcelline, I can’t help but think of the whole play with fire and you might get burned thing. I think she made a dangerous choice screwing you over.”

Jonathan had started running his finger back and forth along the edge of the table, but it wasn’t nervous energy, Owen saw. Jonathan was stroking. It was metaphorical, whether Jonathan realized it or not. Something had changed and this guy had gone from deploying scattershot swagger for any kind of advantage in this negotiation, all the way to his being turned on in some fashion.

Owen eased his spine and shoulders to their full spread. “Why did you take the money that night?”

“Why wouldn’t I take it? Somebody was trying to kill me and rob me. It was hazardous-duty pay.”

“I don’t recall that you were anywhere in the line of fire.”

“You know what? I already addressed this. That money will be rolled into the sale price.”

“If the Anningers still want to buy it.”

Jonathan let the smirk go wide. He twisted away and stepped out of the booth. “You know what? This is bullshit. I guess we’re done. Or I’m done at least. You’re fucking with me. This is business. You don’t care about getting the painting, great. And you didn’t care about getting left holding the, well, whole lot of nothing at the original sale. Fine.

“And money, and stuff that people actually find worthwhile, and, I dunno, success in your work, and self-respect—it doesn’t mean anything. You’re just above it all.”