“I've sent you something.”
It was all there. The encounter at the airport, dismissed as nothing more than the usual airport crowd, someone trying to make a quick grab; the break-in at the Tavern, hundreds of photographs scattered across the floor of the taproom; the front tire of her rental car slashed outside the Internet Café, dismissed as the usual street vandalism; the encounter at her hotel, a passing glimpse, but that sense that most people experienced of having met someone before; and the night before after their meeting with Jonathan Callish.
It was there for someone who was willing to look at it.
Oh, God! She felt physically ill.
If Brynn Halliday's sources were right and there had been another car involved in Cate's accident in France and the driver had driven off, what did it mean? Why would someone just drive off?
The rest of it was there, something she didn't want to admit, but made perfect sense.
“I've sent you something.”
What was Cate after on that trip to France? What had she gotten herself into?
She looked up, her gaze meeting James Morgan's. He was right, about all of it. Except she had no idea what it was, or the reason someone was willing to kill because of it.
He saw it in the expression on her face—the struggle to understand, and the pain as reality set in. And there was one link to all of it, something that someone had been searching for at the Tavern; something they thought she had.
James set a plate of eggs and sausage down on the small kitchen table.
He could cook. Who knew? she thought.
She pushed the eggs around and made a half-hearted attempt to eat. Her hand shook as she set the fork down.
He sat down across from her and poured more coffee. It had grown cold in the flat as the first snow of the season threatened, and he'd kicked the heat up several degrees, but the shaking of her hand had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with raw nerves.
There had been no argument, no attempt to explain everything away, just that look in her eyes and the expression on her face. It was there now, reminding him of women and children he'd seen in Afghanistan—silent, shell-shocked, trying to make sense of everything in a world that made no sense, desperately needing something or someone to hold onto.
“Tell me about the photograph.”
She had explained how she got the photograph and the text message Cate had sent. Now she tried to explain what it was.
“It appears to be a photograph of a painting or possibly a tapestry, early 14th century would be my guess. They were common during that period, usually found in chateaus and homes of the nobility. The most well-known is the Bayeaux Tapestry with the images of the Battle of Hastings.”
“William the Conqueror,” he commented. “There was a bloody, power-hungry son of a bitch.”
She nodded. “Tapestries were like an archive of important events—marriages, births, deaths, war. I first saw the Bayeaux Tapestry when I was on a trip to France during summer break.” She took another sip of coffee.
“Then a few years ago, my publisher put out a coffee table book about the tapestry. The history of the Bayeaux is incredible. During the French Revolution it was confiscated and used to cover a horse cart, of all things. The only reason it survived was because a private citizen recognized it and hid it. Since then, it's gone through a remarkable restoration. That it survived the Middle Ages is incredible.”
“What about the tapestry in the photograph?”
She shook her head. “I don't know what it is.”
“Why would Cate send it to you?”
“I don't know,” she replied again, exhaustion pulling at her. “I don't know. I don't...know!”
He heard the frustration and exhaustion, saw it in the way she shoved back a handful of hair that fell across her eyes.
He said nothing. He didn't have to. The truth was, the more she found out, the less she knew about any of this, including the reason that someone was willing to kill over the photograph.
“About last night,” she eventually said, and caught the look as he cleared away the plate of eggs that had grown cold.
“Thank you.”
She was grateful. The truth was, if he hadn't been there...
