The man’s mouth curled into a small smile. “You told the dealer there were twelve more paintings. Where are they?”

“I lied. Wanted him to think I’d give him more business.”

“I don’t believe you.” More important, Score’s client didn’t believe her.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed, marking off the hours.

“Last warning,” he said. The surgical gloves he wore made his fists look huge, like pale bludgeons. “You’re going to get hurt bad.”

“Won’t be the first time.”

Score gave her an openhanded slap, not enough to knock her down but enough to make her ears ring. He caught her when she staggered. She winced when his fingers pressed tendon against bone.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t get off hurting old ladies, but I do what I have to. Where are the paintings?”

“Who sent you?” she asked.

His smile was as thin as a razor. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Bet I can guess,” she said.

“And if you guessed right, I’d still have to kill you,” he said, laughing at the old joke. Then his voice hardened. He smacked her again, carefully, aware of her frail bones and his pumped-up strength. “So cut the crap and tell me where the paintings are.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed. “You’d bargain with the devil, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve lived my own life on my own terms,” Modesty said, the words stronger than her thin voice, as strong as the fingers biting into her upper arms. “I’m not going to change now. And if you kill me, you’ll never find those paintings.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Score said beneath his breath. “You admit they exist.”

“This house was built by pioneers, people who lived alone and protected themselves. They built hidey-holes that even the Paiutes couldn’t find.”