Anxiety gripped my nerves—the detective in me wanted to run to Victoria’s house, barge in, and find that book. If it was there.
But I glanced at Henry—the strength in his forearms, the curve of his biceps. And I wanted to be back on that mat with him.
“Which is why I have another present. This one’s for you, Henry.” She waggled her eyebrows at him as she went into our secure storage area, coming back with a small package wrapped in newspaper.
“A book for the librarian,” she said with a mock bow. “I was up all night working on this.” Freya took out her laptop, typed furiously for a minute, then turned her screen around. “There was a big theft at the Fordham Rare Manuscript Library in Los Angeles last week,” she said. “Thieves broke into the library, stealing twelve rare books in the seven minutes they had before the cops responded to the security alarm.” She nodded at the package. “Open it.”
Henry did—a big, sexy grin spreading across his face when he saw what it was. I leaned over to see, cheek brushing his shoulder.
“A Room of One’s Own?” I read.
“Virginia Woolf’s famous feminist essay on women and writing,” he said. He opened the cover slowly, whistled beneath his breath when he saw the cover page. “Signed?”
“In her signature purple ink and everything,” Freya said. She adjusted her glasses, shoved up the sleeves of her sweater. “The owner over at Pickwick Rare Books on Front Street is my personal fucking hero. That and Abe, who authorized quite a bit of cash for us to buy this. I basically spread a rumor in the online forums last night that one of the books stolen from LA made its way to Philly. According to what’s been reported in the papers, some of the stolen books were by Virginia Woolf. But they haven’t printed the titles yet. If she’s heard even an inkling of what’s happened, the name will pique her interest.”
“She’ll think we have the strings to pull to gain access to something so notorious,” I said.
“What did she say to you guys the other night? About the different levels?”
I nodded. “We bring her a high-profile gift. Maybe she invites Henry and Delilah Thornhill to see her collection as a thank you.”
“She thinks it puts us on her level,” Henry said. “Potentially.”
Freya tapped her temple. “Office nerd saves the day again.”
I tore my breakfast sandwich in half, placed it in her lap. “You deserve this more than me.”
“The gala is in five days,” Abe said evenly. “If this works, she needs to invite you to her home within a week of the gala. And that book has to be there. Or we miss whatever sliver of a window we had.”
“Last time I checked, we were chasing down the right lead,” I repeated, the words flying out in a nervous jumble.
“I believe that,” Abe said. “I truly do.” He knocked his knuckles against the whiteboard behind him—square in the middle of the 13. “We just can’t forget this. The clock is ticking.”
I couldn’t look at Henry. I hadn’t expected trusting my partner to lead me to this temptation. Twenty minutes ago, I’d been straddling him on a mat as the precious hours we had to find this book slipped away.
“Pull out all the stops on Saturday night,” Abe ordered. “You need to get her eating from the palm of your hand. The more you stroke her ego, the more information Victoria Whitney will cough up.”
“If she thought the two of you were madly in love before, wait till she sees you at the gala,” Freya added. “Dial everything way the fuck up. You’re two wealthy private collectors who are desperate to worship her. And you have a love that rivals Romeo and Juliet.”
“But don’t die at the end. I’d like to make that perfectly clear.” Abe considered the three of us, as if sizing up our potential. “Let’s get back to work.”
24
Delilah
Freya and I sat on the curb at a taco stand on South Street, watching the late-night revelers stream by. My muscles ached from self-defense training with Henry and the mounting tension of the day. Avoiding my blossoming feelings for my fake husband—and the impending pressure of Saturday night—had me rigid with nerves. And Freya, with all the awareness of both my friend and partner, had steered me here as soon as we’d locked up for what she called “taco therapy.”
“I can’t eat another,” I warned, licking salsa from my fingers.
“Oh, but you can,” she said, handing me another taco with a triumphant grin. “I have twenty more behind me, so don’t worry about holding back.”
I rolled my eyes—watched an insanely cute couple on a date walk past us on the sidewalk. I imagined Henry doing that with another woman and felt such a sharp pinch of jealousy I almost dropped my food.
“Hey, I got us tickets to the flower show next month,” she said, cutting into my jealous reverie.
“You didn’t,” I cheered. “Thank you.”
In the years that I’d lived away from my lush, verdant home, I’d filled my Philly row home with an abundance of greenery, even tending to a rooftop garden that Freya loved to visit. I liked feeling like my house was endlessly in blossom; roots, leaves, and dirt were the textures of my childhood. A few times a year, I dragged Freya to flower shows—the only caveat being she was allowed to name every new plant after a wizard in Harry Potter.
“It’ll be a nice treat after this fucking bonkers case.” Freya handed me another cup of salsa. “A celebration for all of your hard work.”
“I’ve got to get the book back first,” I sighed.
“I’m pretty sure you will though.” She winked.
We ate in companionable silence for a minute, content to people-watch as the city unfolded around us. “So,” she said, nudging our shoulders together, “how was seeing Mark last night?”
I sighed again, but it came out more like a growl. “He was smarmy as fuck, as usual. There to schmooze Victoria for some bullshit reason, but really I could tell he was networking.”
“Looking for his next set of victims,” Freya concluded.
“He’s disgusting,” I said softly. She studied me for a minute before placing another taco on my plate. “I wish I didn’t…”
She didn’t interrupt, let me trail off.
“I wish I didn’t relive the day he fired me so many times.”
“If my supposed ‘boyfriend’ fired me from my fucking job so he could get a promotion, I’d relive it every day.”
I turned toward her. “I don’t see you ever making a mistake like that, though. You’re so…self-assured.”
Freya snorted. “Well, thank you for that compliment, but believe me, I make mistakes left and right, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.” She dipped a tortilla chip in guacamole, chewed it thoughtfully. “Because I’m human, just like you.”
“I hate making mistakes.” I propped my chin on my hand.
“I know, doll,” she said. “We all do.”
Mistakes like Mark poked at my black-and-white worldview, and I didn’t like it. Where did Henry’s actions with Bernard fall? Where did Victoria and her charitable giving fit in?