“It’s pretty. But is it weird that I like the other one better, even though it’s not as pretty?”

“No.” Marcelline covered her disappointment with more conversation. “But it’s interesting to know why. Can you tell me why?”

Carly shrugged. “I just don’t feel like I need to look at it for more than five seconds. Like after just a quick peek, I’m all done with it.”

Marcelline nodded. “What about this one?” She flipped to the other saved page and held her breath.

The biggest prize from the robbery of the Gardner Museum was a rare Vermeer, The Concert. When it was stolen, its value was marked at around $200 million. As a black-market trophy, it was almost hard to imagine what it could go for.

Carly bobbed her head, eyebrows up, alert. Marcelline’s heart slammed against her breastbone.

“Same. Yeah. It’s nice, but not as interesting as that other one.”

Marcelline pulled a breath down over the pressure in her throat.

Carly’s back went rigid. She pinched the fingertips of her right hand, massaging them unconsciously. “I’m sorry. Was that lame? Are these special and I missed something? Can I look again?”

Marcelline sagged. “No, honey. Not at all. I mean, yes, they’re special in that they’re works by famous artists, but you never need to apologize for your opinions. There’s no question that if you studied them, you could give a clever analysis. You’re a natural. I only wanted your basic reaction.” She swallowed a hard lump of guilt. It felt shitty to make Carly doubt herself, yanking on her budding confidence. “Please don’t worry. It wasn’t a trick que—” Marcelline shook her head and forced a smile. “There was no right answer. You’re fine. You did exactly what I asked of you.”

The three of them worked and read in companionable silence for nearly another hour. Marcelline stewed in feeling lousy and in doubt of everything she’d done since she’d left. She was sitting here manipulating a sweet kid because she was too chickenshit to figure out how to do what she’d claimed to want more than anything else in the world.

Carly clearly had never seen the other paintings. That didn’t mean anything. The Flinck was definitely in the footage of Carly’s house. A phantom itch skittered over Marcelline’s neck. She drew out her phone and angled it away from the girls and watched the video again. Just to touch base, to make sure she wasn’t crazy. Or not crazy like that, at least.

Later, in the stacks, Marcelline put back the art books they had taken out, but she withdrew, again, a single volume.

“Hey, Carly. One more. What do you think of this one?”