Page 71 of Over Her Dead Body

There are several things I could say. A woman may have died upstairs while he admired the terrace. My dead husband is pretending to be a collector with a false name.

I have not slept, which is not improving my judgment.

I answer the last message.

Sure.

Then I set my phone facedown because apparently self-awareness is not the same as growth.

When I turn back to my computer, a new email is at the top of my inbox.

Private Collection Inquiry—Lisbon Estate

My stomach does several somersaults. For a second, I cannot pull in a full breath.

I click.

A representative of an old Lisbon family is seeking a discreet evaluation of privately held works. Nineteenth- and twentieth-century European paintings. Several unattributed studies. Personal objects requiring sensitive review.

Private collection.

Lisbon.

Old family money.

The family has requested me by name.

No photographs.

No family name.

No inventory.

This is not a coincidence.

It is the story I told Margot last night, reformatted as an opportunity and delivered directly to my inbox.

A signature I do not recognize sits at the bottom. A Portuguese phone number. A line about urgency without saying why.

Then one final sentence.

No inventory. Requires discretion.

I read the email again.

The words do not change.

I grab my phone and head straight for Margot’s office.

She looks up when I walk in. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Who did you tell?”

Margot closes the folder in front of her. “About what?”

“Lisbon.”

“I didn’t.”