I found a cool-looking restaurant where I sat at a redwood bar, had an omelet, fries, and much needed coffee. My night of watching Alex toss and turn had left me tired and troubled. Was it talking about her mother’s condition that had given her such bad dreams—or was there something deeper that had caused her such pain? I had to admit I liked the urgency of her goodbye kiss but not how she’d pushed me away just after. Was she still playing advance and retreat? If so, she didn’t seem to be enjoying the game any more than I was.

My appointment at the Louvre was not for a couple of hours, so I took my time, soaking in the beauty of the city. Amped up on caffeine, I fast-walked around the grounds of Les Invalides, the complex of buildings dedicated to the French military, topped by a gold dome that managed to glitter despite the lack of sun. I strolled along tree-lined streets, stopped to admire a large tiered theater that turned out to be the famous Comédie-Française, and could have wandered along the streets of Paris all day if it were not getting close to the time of my appointment. I headed toward the Louvre with a mix of excitement and trepidation about finally seeing the Mona Lisa. Would I recognize what Chaudron had put into his forgeries, even if I saw it?

With his narrow face and angular features, dark hair and pointy goatee, the curator of Renaissance painting, Alain Gingembre, looked as he’d been painted by El Greco. He had bought my story: an art historian writing a paper on the work of Leonardo, though he seemed in a hurry, as if I were an annoyance taking him away from something more important. I followed him through the museum, his shoes echoing on the marble floors. The temperature-controlled air was cool and thin, a smell of something musty under lemony floor wax. I could see why Vincent had referred to the place as a graveyard.

We moved down one long hallway after another, ignoring works of art, and I couldn’t help but think of my great-grandfather heading down these same halls to commit his notorious crime.

Every few yards, the curator looked over his shoulder and said “Come,” as if to a dog. I was tempted to bark.

We finally reached the Salle des Ètats gallery, and there she was, Leonardo’s lady, as Vincent had so often called her.

My first thought was She’s so small. A moment later, her quiet intensity drew me in. Was it simply because the image was so famous or that I had been obsessed with the painting for so many years?

I moved closer. The shadowy face of a bearded man slid across the glass, and I shivered. It took me a minute to realize the reflection was my own. A deep breath and I stepped back.

“It’s a shame to cover the painting with glass,” I said as if Simone’s words to Vincent had been whispered in my ear.