Lowe poked his head around Stella’s curls. “Hadley Bacall, this is Adam Goldberg.”

She stood. He was a few inches shorter than her, but many men were. She started to hold out her hand to shake, but realized her gloves were in her coat pocket, ruined by the griffin’s beak. She canted her head instead. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goldberg.”

“Adam, please, and you, as well.” Between two blinks, his gaze discreetly swept up and down her figure. “Lowe’s mentioned you.”

“Has he?”

“You’re the curator.”

“Yes.” She gestured toward a seat. “Won’t you join us?”

He hung his hat and sat next to Lowe as the girl looked up at Hadley. “This is Stella, my daughter.”

“Hello,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The girl didn’t respond.

Hadley was terrible with children. She tried again. “What’s that you have in your hand? A windup cat?”

No answer.

Her father spoke in her stead. “Lowe brought it back from Egypt.” He turned to Lowe and said, “All week, it’s been either the cat or Raggedy Ann.”

“Farbror Lowe did a good job, ja?” He wiggled the cat before speaking to Hadley. “Adam and I are old friends. We grew up together.”

“And you work together now?”

“On occasion,” Adam said.

“What exactly do you do, if I may ask?”

Adam’s eyes flicked toward Lowe’s. “Whatever harebrained thing he needs me to do.”

Lowe turned Stella around in his lap to face the table. “In my family’s business, it pays to have trustworthy people to make things disappear for short amounts of time. Think of Adam as the troll under the bridge.”

“Troll?”

“Dragon!” Lowe said with a merry chuckle. “I meant a dragon guarding treasure.”

“Better.”

“Anyway, he keeps things safe. He’s holding on to the base already. He’s agreed to stash all of it.” Lowe slid the handkerchief-wrapped crossbar across the table. “Just as we discussed.”

A thousand doubts went through Hadley’s mind. Where did this man live? Where was he “stashing” the amulet pieces? What was stopping him from selling them off to someone else?

Lowe’s thigh knocked against hers. “Your father told me to keep them safe. Adam is very, very careful. And ten times more trustworthy than me.”

She gave Lowe a sidelong look.

“Okay, a thousand times more trustworthy.”

“That’s better.”

Adam laughed. “She already knows your con artist ways.”

“Oh, I think there’s another word for the kind of artist he is,” she said, suppressing a smile. “And it starts with bull.”

The men’s hearty laughter surprised her. Stella, as well, who grinned along with them like she was in on the joke. Hadley glanced at the windup cat on the table.

“I have a cat, too,” she told the girl. “He’s black, just like yours.”

The girl still didn’t answer.

“She can’t hear,” Lowe said in quiet voice.

A prickling, warm embarrassment trickled through Hadley as she looked between Lowe and the girl’s father. “I’m . . .” What? So sorry for the father? For the girl? Making a faux pas?

“She’s an excellent lip-reader, though,” Lowe said, smiling down at the girl. “And she’s learning how to use sign language.”

“Mostly she’s learning to stomp her foot and shake her head,” Adam said, giving Hadley a kind smile she didn’t quite feel she deserved. Stella banged the cat on the table and made a gruff noise. “Like that,” Adam said. “My wife passed a couple years back, so it’s just the two of us. She could probably stand to learn some feminine manners.”

“Absolutely not,” Lowe said, winding up the black cat. “Feminine manners are overrated. You stomp your foot all you want, sötnos.”

A rush of emotions welled in Hadley—tenderness for the father and his daughter. Pity, too. And something else: a nagging envy for the easy companionship and bond Lowe shared with these people, and a longing to have the same.

Watching Lowe hold the small girl tore something loose inside Hadley. This was real and good. He cared about them. Trusted them—and they trusted Lowe.

And for no real logical reason, she decided at that moment, she trusted him, too.

FIFTEEN

AFTER LEAVING LOWE AND Adam that afternoon, Hadley spent the rest of the weekend studying her mother’s pictograms. She didn’t hear a peep out of her father regarding the fallen chandelier at the museum party, which was fine. But he was the last person she wanted to see when she walked into her office on Monday. Having telephoned his house yesterday to get word about his mood, she’d discovered from his staff that he seemed to be in fine spirits. Father’s cook said he was singing to himself. Apparently he’d received a telephone message from a Mr. Magnusson that brightened his day.

She wasn’t sure why this bothered her. Lowe had told her he’d need to inform her father about finding the crossbar. Father was, after all, paying Lowe to hunt them down. And she was not supposed to know about it, so there was nothing to do but step aside, no matter how much this grated her nerves.

But now that she had to sit in front of his desk and listen to him rattle off all the reasons why Lowe was the best fit for his replacement, she was feeling less bothered and more insulted.