I stared at him.
This was a trap. Or he was insane.
"Why?"
"Because you're going to do this whether I help or not." His voice was flat. "So either I help you finish quickly, or I watch you struggle for the next hours. "
"There's a third option. You could leave."
"No." He set the photograph down on the stack he'd already organized.
We stared at each other. Him kneeling on one side of the scattered papers, me kneeling on the other, the evidence of Marcus Whitmore's questionable art collection spread between us like a battlefield.
"Fine."
The word tasted like surrender.
"Fine," I said again. "You want to help? Then listen. Don't interrupt. Don't give me your opinion unless I ask for it. And don't"—I held up my good hand when he opened his mouth—"don't touch anything unless I tell you
