Page 43 of Dead and Gone

I slice Leif a look. "We're wasting time." I gesture across the road. "Let's see what happens when we give the curator his missing mole, and what I see in his mind."

The museum entrance is even less welcoming than the first time, dim and colder since nobody would waste money onheating a place that receives no visitors. The curator waits by the front desk, still dressed in his green jacket and his attitude still suspicious.

Without speaking, he ushers us into a room that resembles a classroom more than a meeting room. Plastic pots containing pencils are set at intervals along a rectangular table, and completed, colorful worksheets with children's names and ages beneath are pinned to the walls.

The curator gestures at us to sit in the child-sized bucket chairs, and I glance at a blank pile of worksheets on the desk. "I do hope you're not requesting we create something decorative. Art is not my strong suit."

Ignoring me, he flicks on the overhead light. "Do you have the mole?"

Leif leans back and crosses his arms. "We do but can't give you it because?—"

"Butwhat?" interrupts the curator. "Youdowant money! I'll tell the police about the blackmail. I have evidence."

"Leif." I look at him, and he dutifully pulls the mole from inside his jacket.

The curator moves from his position in the doorway and snatches the stuffed creature from Leif's hand. As he strokes the white fur, his face tinges pink then borders on red. "What happened to the eyes?"

I lean forward. "I was hoping you'd know."

"Me? How would I know? I haven't seen or touched the mole since the hooligans stole it."

"The kids lost the eyes," puts in Leif. "They fell out."

The curator's face turns an even more impressive shade of red as he chokes in indignation. "What?"

"You seem unusually attached to the exhibit," I say. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why you're panicked about themoledisappearing but not the pocket watch? You failed to answer me before."

His grip tightens on the mole. “I—” He stumbles, then blurts, “I worried the Redridges might pull all their donations if another of their items disappeared. I had to find the mole quickly before they noticed.”

"How fortunate for you that the family don't use Instagram," I say. "And the missing pocket watch? Were they not upset by that?"

Mr. Wright runs fingers down his cheek. "The family weren't happy, naturally, but the pocket watch is common and not valuable. You don't understand how unusual the mole is. It's one of our most important exhibits. I've had offers from collectors who wanted to buy the item, and I refused."

"Recent ones?" I frown.

"Yes. One person offered a lot of money."

"Who?" asks Grayson.

The curator shrugs. Alistair?

"Was yourtrueconcern that somebody may discover you'd swapped the mole's eyes for glass beads?" I ask.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies, avoiding my gaze.

I strike out at that confused mind, catching his first thoughts and images.

The rubies. The ivory box. Jewels.

"Oh, I think you do know what I'm talking about," I say. "The real eyes were missing before the kids stole the exhibit."

"Real eyes? What's that supposed to mean?The mole was intact when thieved—the delinquents vandalized it!" he replies, voice rising.

"Were you planning to sell the mole's real eyes?" I continue.

"Was your purchaser a witch?" adds Rowan.

"Purchaser of what? I told you; I refused to sell the mole." The curator grips the thing tighter. "What on earth are you talking about?"

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