Chapter Twenty-ThreeACACIA HAD SLEPT most of the day, so her insomnia wasn’t surprising. She wanted to sleep. She craved the bliss of slumber, but it eluded her.
She’d texted Kate after the visit to the gallery, assuring her she was all right. She’d tossed and turned in her darkened room long after she’d bid Nicholas good night and placed Marcel’s journal in his hands.
He’d thanked her, a look of triumph flitting across his face. Then he’d put one of his large hands on her shoulder and wished her a good rest.
But her rest had not been good.
At three o’clock in the morning, she’d had enough. She threw off the covers, dressed quickly, and turned on her computer. She Googled the Degas that had been stolen the night Riva Cassirer was murdered.
It wasn’t an especially striking piece, altho
