"What would you like me to say."
"The report. The car accident. The miscarriage." He stopped. Let the words sit. "That's what I found, Kieran."
I picked up the document. Folded it once more and put it in my inside jacket pocket, against my chest.
"Where is she now?" Declan said. "Elara."
"West 88th Street." I'd had the address since she moved in. I hadn't used it. "She's working at the Whitmore Collection. Provenance research."
He nodded slowly. "And Camilla. You're not going to—"
"No." I stood up. "Not yet."
Declan looked at me for a long moment. "What are you going to do?" he said.
I picked up my coat from the stool beside me. The document was a weight against my ribs. "I don't know yet," I said. "Something that doesn't involve lawyers."
I drove without a destination, which I di
