I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard before I realized that was a bad idea. I leaned over and held him close to me. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Oh God, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I felt him stir.
His eyelids fluttered, and I almost fainted with relief. “Oh God, you’re alive. Thank you. I’ll get help. Don’t worry.”
He gazed up at me, his eyes blurry. He coughed, then muttered something.
I leaned closer. “What?”
“De-vil,” he whispered. His arms relaxed around his chest and his jacket loosened.
“What are you saying?”
He coughed again. “Remember… the… devil.”
A thick, heavy book slipped out from inside his jacket. I quickly snatched it before it slid onto the bloody floor. Instinct, I guess, ingrained in me from childhood. Save the book. I gaped at the faded black leather binding. Once-elegant gold tooling created a pale border of fleur-de-lis around the front edges of the cover, and each flower point was studded with bloodred gems. Rubies? Ornate but rusted brass clasps in the shape of claws held the book closed.
Goethe’s Faust.
My gaze darted back to Abraham. His lips trembled as he formed a slight smile.
I shoved the book inside my suit jacket.
He nodded his head in approval. At least, I thought it was a nod. Then his eyes glazed over and flickered closed.
“No.” I grabbed his jacket. “No. Don’t you dare. Abraham. Wake up. Oh God. Don’t-”
His head slumped to the side.
“No! No, please-”
“Let him go.”
“Yikes!” I snatched my hands away. Abraham sagged to the floor. I stared at my hands. They were covered in blood. I screamed again.
“That’s enough. Stand up and move away from him.”
I whipped my head around. The frowning man from upstairs stood at the door holding a gun pointed directly at me.
And yeah, he was still frowning.
I stared, unable to move. The lights were too bright. Shards of color twirled like kaleidoscopes at the edges of my vision. Frowning Man waved the gun as if to catch my attention, but he was getting blurry.
I felt myself sway. And everything faded to black.
Calloused hands pushed my hair back from my forehead.
“Women,” a male voice muttered in scorn.
I groaned.
“Wake up, now.” The voice was clipped, British, impatient. It had to be the frowning man. Who else? From his tone I imagined he wasn’t exactly beaming at me.
He patted my cheek. “Come on, snap out of it.” He smelled like heaven. Manly and warm with a hint of green forest and a touch of leather and-
He slapped my cheek a little too vigorously. “I know you’re awake. Come on now. That’s it. Come about.”
Come about?
“I’m not a boat,” I grumbled, and shifted away from him. There were cushions beneath me. A couch. How’d I get on a couch?
“Good, you’re awake.” He gave me another smack for good measure and I managed to reach up and grab his hand.
With one eye opened, I glared at him. “Stop hitting me.”
“Ah. You’re feeling better.”
“No thanks to you.” I pushed my way up to a sitting position. “Where am I?”
“Two doors down from where I found you.” He’d found me with Abraham. The memory came rushing back. My tears welled up and spilled over.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He reached in his breast pocket and thrust his white linen handkerchief into my hand. Then he stood and began to pace.
I was about to thank him for the handkerchief when he said, “You’d better sit all the way up or you’ll likely drown yourself.”
“Oh, be quiet.” Then I blew my nose and dabbed away the tears, determined not to cry anymore in front of this insensitive jerk. I sat straighter and folded my arms tightly around my chest-and realized with alarm that the book I’d been hiding was gone.
I jumped off the couch. “Where’s my-”
“Looking for this?” He held up the black leather-bound Faust, clutching it with a white dust cloth.
“That’s mine,” I blurted.
“Yours?”
“What I mean is, it’s not yours.”
“It’s not?”
“It belongs to the Winslow collection. Abraham gave it to me.”
“Gave it to you?”
I clenched my fists. “Stop repeating my words.”
“Repeating?” He pursed his lips in a smirk.
I no longer cared that he was sexy and smelled good. He was too incredibly annoying.
I took a deep breath. “Abraham gave the book to me for safekeeping.”
“Of course he did.”
“You don’t need to be sarcastic,” I said, glaring at him. “He really did give it to me.”
He grunted. “Right.”
“Who the hell are you?”
He carefully placed the book down on the side counter. “We’ll get to that.”
“We’ll get to it right now or I’m leaving.” I swept my hair back from my face and said, “Why am I even talking to you? I’m out of here.”
He stepped in front of me. “You’re not going anywhere. The police arrived just moments ago and they’ll want to question you.”
“Fine. I want to talk to them, too.”
“You won’t have long to wait. They’re upstairs handling the crowd right now. They’ll be down shortly to survey the murder scene and then they’ll have a little talk with you.”
I gulped and sat back down on the couch. Why did that phrase make this horrible night feel even worse? “Murder scene?”
“Oh, that’s very well played,” he said. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble the moment I saw you.”
I scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“This innocent routine.” He strolled about the room with his hands in his pockets. “I’m certain the local police will be impressed with your little fainting act, but I saw you in that room with Karastovsky.”
Appalled, I pushed myself off the couch and cornered him. “You think I killed Abraham?”
“You have his blood on your hands.”
I looked at my hands. Maybe I wavered because he grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me and said, “Oh no, you don’t. No more fainting.”
I slapped his hands away. “Let go of me. I’m not going to faint.”
“Then stop breathing so heavily.”
“What is wrong with you?”
He leaned back against the counter and crossed his ankles nonchalantly. “You killed a man and there’s something wrong with me?”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Tell it to the cops.”
“How dare you?” I sucked in a much-needed breath before continuing. “You don’t even know me. Abraham Karastovsky was my friend. My teacher. He-he was like my uncle. We talked tonight and he was so happy and-and then I found him in that room. He died in my arms.” I felt my throat close and had to stop. I put my hand over my eyes.
“Oh, here we go again,” he said. “I’m sure the local cops will be properly hoodwinked.”
I shrieked. I admit it. Then I gritted my teeth, looked him in the eye and said, “First of all, I never faint. Well, except for tonight. It was the blood. I have this thing about blood. Never mind, why am I explaining myself to you?”
“I have no idea.”
I paced away, then whipped around. “Second, I don’t give a damn what you think. I did not kill Abraham Karastovsky. I know the truth and that’s all that matters. And by the way, I’m thinking the cops are going to be interested in hearing your alibi, too, pal.”
He snorted with contempt.
“And third,” I continued, “no one says hoodwinked anymore.”
His eyes narrowed to angry pinpoints as he leaned closer. “Hoodwinked. It means to trick, deceive, dupe.”
I jabbed his lapel. “I know what it means, but nobody uses it outside of a Dickens novel.”
We stared at each other with suspicion and ire.
I shook my head. “Why am I even talking to you? You’re obviously just another insane person carrying a gun.” Oh, crap, he was carrying a gun. He could’ve used it to kill Abraham. I felt sick all over again.