“Why?” Ian asked.
I whirled to face him. “What if it’s not Abraham’s blood? What if he attacked his assailant and that’s the killer’s blood on the book? What if-”
“Jeez, Brooklyn,” Ian said. “Chill out.”
Derek held up his hand to stop the argument. “I’m tasked with keeping this book secure. I fully intend to turn over those photos and have them examine the blood on this handkerchief.”
“But what about the book itself? The police-”
“Will destroy it in their zeal to investigate combined with their typical cloddish incompetence,” Derek said with a dismissive wave.
“I thought you were working with them.”
“I am, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow them to bollix a priceless work of art I’m determined to protect.” He picked up the book again and held it at an angle to check that he’d cleaned it thoroughly.
“Oh, give me the damn book,” I said.
He returned it to its place on the white cloth, then pulled the cloth until the book was directly in front of me.
“I knew you’d see reason,” he said.
“Oh, please.” I jabbed my finger at him. “I want to hear the results of that handkerchief analysis.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He raised an eyebrow, looked at Ian. “Prickly thing.”
Ian nodded. “Always has been.”
“Not funny.” But apparently they didn’t care. “Don’t you both have somewhere else to be?”
Derek thought for a few seconds. “Not really.”
“Me, neither,” Ian said, checking his watch.
I huffed out a breath. They were worse than my brothers now that they had a shared bond, namely, the joy of tormenting me.
Not that I’d ever let these guys know, but I didn’t want to see the Faust covered in slimy black fingerprint dust, either. At the same time, a twinge of guilt rippled through me. I wanted Abraham’s killer caught, but I wanted the book to be protected, too. I tried to convince myself that Abraham would’ve felt the same way.
I ignored my peanut gallery and pulled a pair of reading glasses, a notebook and a pen from my bag to take a closer look at the book and figure out what tools and supplies I would need to bring in from my own studio.