Jonathan had dared hope that the painting could be worth five figures. It turned out to be worth millions. But how to unload it? It was the best worst problem he’d ever had. No regular person knows how to do that. All of a sudden he had this thing he suspected was valuable, but then what?

He had to find someone who did know what to do with it. Nothing in his education in special trash had ever offered a suggestion of how to get the most out of a nearly four-hundred-year-old painting.

Yellowed newspapers, bubbled glass, vintage advertising signs with their logos rusting off, buffalo nickels, toys they had wisely stopped making once better fun had come along, obsolete electronics—if it was quaint and old, or just quaint or just old, Jonathan would have had an idea of where to start. But as it was . . .

Lots of experts were available online, but his instinct had been to go in person, with only a photo of the painting on his phone. He’d strolled through a huge auction house and two high-end galleries, sizing up the people there, comparing their treasures as best he could against what he’d hidden away at home. But he hadn’t been inspired to talk to any of them before he met Marcelline.

She was beautiful, both warm and cool at the same time, and that never hurt anything. But watching her work through two phone calls and one in-the-flesh transaction had convinced Jonathan he’d find an angle, a set of dials he could control in the exchange. She was interested in her work, but passionless about it.

That assessment of her burned to the ground when they’d realized, together, what he had wrapped in a blanket in his closet at home. Marcelline had sparked up, so glittering and intense with excitement that Jonathan couldn’t even look at her without feeling it in his balls. It wasn’t just the money for her. It was the story of the painting, the history, the old Boston museum heist.

They talked each other into selling it themselves without involving the gallery or the FBI. She made calls. Took a promising meeting. Then they talked each other through two bottles of wine and, ultimately, into bed.

When he woke up in her apartment, he’d still been convinced of the wisdom of the private sale, but perhaps not of the rest of it. He shouldn’t have slept with her. Maybe he shouldn’t even have shown interest in her idea. He should have left and said that he would think about it and be in touch.

He was angry with himself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t telegraphed with her sleek look and liquid grace, climbing atop him, smooth legs parting over his lap on her sofa, mouth tasting of wine, that she was fast, decisive, aerodynamic even.