Page 47 of Disarming Caine

“Glass of wine?”

I laughed as I climbed the ladder to take a closer look. “No, I’m working. But again, you go ahead.”

He uncorked a bottle of white and poured.

“When did you first notice it?” There was discoloration on the ceiling, only three inches across, but close enough to the wall, there could be hidden damage.

“Thursday evening.”

I pressed my finger to it. Solid, not squishy, so it could have been a one-off event, rather than standing water or continued flow. “Your ensuite’s above here. Have there been any leaks?”

His gaze went to the ceiling. “Maybe?”

“I’ll head up and look.”

“Sounds good.” He joined me, two glasses of wine in hand. “You want?”

I shook my head. “Remember how I’m working?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He returned both glasses to the island in the kitchen and we headed up the stairs. The second floor was all pale hardwood and cream-colored walls, covered in sailing photos.

“This—” I tapped a photo of Nathan, Cass, Kevin, and I aboard the USS Constitution in Boston, the summer after I graduated from high school. “—was always one of my favorite summer vacations.”

“How many hours did you force me to spend in the Gardner Museum?” He flipped on the light in his bedroom and went in.

“Not enough.”

Contrasting with the hallway, his bedroom had deep plum walls and dark wood. A king-size sleigh bed dominated the space, facing a big screen television, which hung above a long bookcase. Stacks of books were piled on every surface.

As an insurance adjuster, I walked through many people’s private spaces and thought nothing of it. Sometimes they were nice, sometimes they were so filthy I didn’t want to touch anything. Still, they were just rooms which could contain damage and it was work.

But this was Nathan’s bedroom. It felt like an intrusion. I’d been in his house several times but had only seen the bedroom on my first visit, when he was still living with Tina.

A book on top of the bedside table caught my attention, pulling me to it. Like gravity.

He turned at the bathroom door when I didn’t follow him. “Sam?”

“Complain all you want, but…” I lifted the book, running a hand over the textured cover, admiring the Rembrandt self-portrait at its center. I flashed it toward him before flipping through the pages. It wasStolen, the only book the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum had authorized about the theft of thirteen priceless works of art from their museum. The largest property theft of all time, let alone the most prominent art crime, which was still unsolved.

Once upon a time, I’d believed that case was my destiny—I was even born on its anniversary. The FBI had originally assigned me to Boston to help with the case, putting it within my grasp. But then I left.

Stolenhad been on top of a museum guidebook and a few others about the heist. “What’s with all this?”

Laughing, he returned from the bathroom and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t exactly expecting you to come up here.”

“So?” I sat next to him.

He reached around me to take the guidebook and absently flipped through it. “Do you remember I told you this summer I was working on a case with the FBI?”

“Of course.” How could I not? It had been Nathan’s first warning about Antonio and his family. I’d brushed it off as ridiculous, but the time I spent in Naples with Antonio made me question how valid the warning was. “A smuggling…”

My hands slowly raised to cover my gaping mouth, and he nodded. There was no way he was working on my dream case.

I said, “Elliot Skinner told me you were working with him.”

Nathan closed the guidebook, tapping it against his forehead. “He mentioned that. Told me to stop telling you things because you’ll put more than two and two together.”

I stifled a laugh and nudged him with my shoulder. “Failed that test, didn’t you?”

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