How strange that the world in front of me spun cheerfully forward even as my understanding of it disintegrated.
How strange that I was still convinced that what was happening right before my eyes wasn’t real.
“Beautiful view.”
I turned to find Abraham behind me, dressed in a black pea coat and leather gloves, his scowl firmly in place.
“It never gets old,” I admitted. “You’re not here to arrest me, are you, Abraham?”
“You should call me Abe. And no, I’m not.”
I nodded, still wary. “How can I help you?”
Abe slid his hands back into his pockets. “You did fine work, Henry. Your notes were invaluable these past couple of days—the behavior you noted, the way you tracked Bernard’s movements and actions. You have an eye for detective work.”
“I’m a librarian.”
He held my gaze. “Louisa is reporting the theft of the Tamerlane to Interpol as we speak. They’re partnering closely with the FBI on this one. I gave her all the evidence you had provided to me. Louisa is also reporting the other thefts you had listed in your notes. The staff are inventorying now, and the extent of his crimes is becoming rather obvious.”
My brow furrowed. “You’re joking.”
“I’ve never been a man with a sense of humor.” He looked down for a moment, as if analyzing each blade of grass. “You’ll be called in for questioning, of course. Because of your connection to Bernard, the notes you took, and the forgeries.”
“Am I a suspect?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” he said. “But you’re certainly a person of interest. You should bring a lawyer, just in case.”
My neck felt hot. I toed the grass with my shoes, both heartened by Abe’s news but also terrified. “So Codex isn’t working this case any longer?”
“Louisa canceled our contract. I was unable to work fast enough for your boss. The single lead I was following dried up almost immediately.” He stared into the horizon, spine rigid. “On the bright side, Bernard Allerton is likely to become the FBI and Interpol’s main suspect.”
“I still can’t truly believe that.”
“You will,” he promised. “With time.”
His business card appeared between his fingers.
“I was an FBI agent for a long time,” he said. “And I watched us fail, continually. The expanse of theft in the world of antiquities is more massive than you’ll ever know.”
Bernard had alluded as much to me—his woefully naive successor.
“The thefts got bigger, our resources got smaller, and through it all, rare manuscripts and valuable art slipped through our fingers like grains of sand. We were steadily failing. Private detectives don’t have legal powers—they can’t arrest suspects or bring someone to trial. But we have the unique capability to slip into a situation undercover and gain someone’s trust.” Abe squinted against the autumn sun. “A book thief will confess to a world of sins when there’s trust involved.”
Images flew up in my imagination: shadowy figures, cloaked daggers, secrets whispered in the night. I found myself turning fully toward Abe, desperate for him to keep talking about Codex.
But instead he asked, “How do you feel right now?”
“Relieved,” I lied.
“Bullshit,” he said.
We stood for a minute while I untangled the complicated mess of emotions that had lodged itself in my chest, made more complicated by my response to Codex.
“Angry,” I finally said through clenched teeth. “I’m fucking furious with Bernard. With myself. With everything.”
“And what else?”
I faced away—this was the feeling I hadn’t wanted to face. But it was there, steady as my pulse. “I want revenge. I want to catch the bastard myself. Wipe that smug look off his face.”
“Good man,” he said. I turned and gawked at him, surprised. “Bernard was going to blackmail you. Try to send you to prison for a crime you most definitely didn’t commit. Who wouldn’t want revenge?”
“True,” I said. “But revenge isn’t really my style. And I’m mostly angry with myself.”
“In my career, I’ve worked with many victims of fraud, Henry,” Abe said. “People who were scammed in pyramid schemes or were conned out of their life savings. It’s like talking to a sleepwalker; the way they suddenly awaken to the manipulation. You’re not the only one, believe me. But my question to you is: what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve done everything I can,” I protested. “The evidence has been handed over. I’ll go in for questioning, like you said, give them everything I have. I can’t go after him. This is the end of the road.”
Abe flashed a secretive smile. “At Codex, we fit puzzle pieces together, using a combination of research and gut instinct. Sometimes it’s thrilling. Sometimes it’s boring. You’ll sit in a car for six hours, waiting for a suspect to leave their job. Or maybe you’ll go undercover to gain someone’s trust.”
A shiver raced up my spine, a buzz of something wild and unruly.
“Our entire job is to recover a stolen piece of history. Bernard took something you loved.” He held the card in front of me, and I took it. “How would it feel to get it back?”
“Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?” I said.
Another tiny smile. “My flight leaves tonight. I’ll call you when I get back in the States. For what it’s worth, I think you’d make one hell of a private detective.”
Abe vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving me alone with my chaotic thoughts. I pictured Bernard, smirking at his table: It’s only a crime if someone gets caught.
And Abe: Who wouldn’t want revenge?
If Bernard could be a respected academic and also a book thief—who was to say a librarian couldn’t become a detective?
4
Delilah
Three months later
Philadelphia, PA
The art gallery was packed with thieves.
I could sense them all around me.
Abe had ordered us to the opening of the Smith Sampson Gallery in Center City—a glitzy event that attracted Philadelphia’s wealthiest art patrons and philanthropists. Freya and I stood in the corner of the wide, brightly lit room, clutching glasses of champagne, smiling. And trying to decipher who our target was.
Freya kept tugging on her dress with muttered curses. Her trademark blonde bun was a little less messy than usual—her version of dressed-up.
“One hour,” I said, holding up my finger. “One hour and you can put your yoga pants back on.”
“Thank God.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Yoga pants are the uniform of a proper Saturday night.”
I took a sip of expensive, bubbly alcohol. And my eyes found Henry Finch, our newest Codex detective, standing near a vivid blue painting in a tailored suit. He was studying the canvas like it held a secret he’d very much like to know. We’d barely worked together these past few months—I knew that he was thirty-five, spoke four languages, was brilliant, and had studied his entire life to be a rare book librarian.