He’d long recovered from his fall at Violet’s funeral, but had reinjured his left knee the week before, under mysterious circumstances.

“Good as new.” He flexed his leg. “We can stay as long as you’d like. Well, within limits. I do have a lunch date.”

Bram and I exchanged a look.

“Someone new?” I asked.

“Same gal as last time.” His smile was pure male satisfaction. “Things are progressing.”

I wondered if that had something to do with his knee injury. If so, I didn’t want to know it.

Sergei’s BMW rolled up the crushed gravel behind us and stopped to park in the spot Diya’s cab had just vacated.

He carried a wrapped package under his arm, in addition to a fat oversized envelope that he handed to me. “Sorry I’m late.”

“What’s this?”

“Johanna Bonger’s letters to her niece. Authenticated. Bam!”

“I’m holding historical treasure?”

“Don’t have a heart attack yet. There’s more.” Sergei’s fingers trembled as he loosened the string around the other package.

I’d never seen Sergei nervous before. It made me nervous in turn. “What is it?”

I knew the small painting that emerged, the poorly painted baby on the blue bedspread. The painting was too ugly to hang, so I’d passed it to Sergei to see if it might be worth something just based on age.

“An original Vincent van Gogh,” he whispered. “An old buddy at Christie’s certified it. They would love to have it as the highlight of their fall auction.”

My heart stopped.

Bram took my hand, flashing his cousin a look of pure suspicion, as if he suspected a ploy on Sergei’s part to seduce me away. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look like a masterpiece. I always thought the poor kid looked dead.”

A dead child. My heart stopped. “I know who that is.” And it made me want to cry. “Vincent’s older brother who was stillborn. Vincent was named after him. Jo talks about him in one of her letters.”

“He’s meant to look dead?” Bram scrutinized the figure. “He does look a little better than when he was covered in grime.”

My brain was in a parallel universe as I said, “I washed him with Dawn.”

Sergei stilled. “You mean metaphorically? You took the painting to Central Park and held it up to the rising sun to consecrate the day, like a spiritual experience?”

I covered my face with a hand and spoke through my fingers. “Dishwashing liquid. In the kitchen sink.”

“Christ.” He huffed out a shocked breath.

I had nothing to add, not even when Bram gave me a comforting hug, doing his best to keep the horror off his face.

“So,” Bram Sr. said with caution, “Violet had an original Vincent van Gogh and just kept it quiet?”