“Brooklyn?”

“Huh?” I blinked up at him. “Sorry, I zoned out.” Did I tell you we were a pair? “What’s up?”

“It’s about the Faust.”

I shivered. “What about it?”

“I need you to take over the restoration. Can you start tomorrow?”

“But…” What could I say? Images of Abraham passed like a slide show in my head. The party atmosphere earlier. The hugs. The shared laughter. Doris Bondurant playfully slugging him. Then the fear. Finding him dying. The whispered phrase. The book slipping out of his jacket. Then death. And blood. So much blood.

The curse.

“Ian, you know I would help if I could, but…”

His expression was sorrowful. “I know, I know. I hate to even ask.”

He slung his arm around my shoulder and led me down the hall, away from the curious glances of the police. “The Winslows are threatening to pull the book from the exhibit if it’s not ready by next week’s official opening. I really need to know if you can do it.”

“Of course I can do it,” I said quickly. “That’s not the issue. There’s, you know, Abraham to consider.”

It seemed to me, stepping in to take the place of a murdered friend carried a fairly high creep factor with it.

“I know, babe,” he said, running both hands through his hair in frustration. “But there’s no one else I can count on.”

“The Winslows can’t pull the book, can they?”

“You haven’t met them, have you?” he asked warily.

“Yes. No.” I stopped walking and looked up at him. “But the Faust is the most important book in the collection. It doesn’t matter if it’s restored or not. It’s already a work of art. Display it as is.”

“Believe me, I’d love to, but they don’t see it that way. Mrs. Winslow said she wants it to look pretty.” He shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”