Free Library of Gold by Gayle Lynds

phone. She restarted the short video, staring hard. Freezing it, she pumped up the size of the image. Charles’s left hand had been sliced badly in an accident at a dig in Turkey. If this man was Charles, there should be a long scar on his hand.
    She half-expected to see smooth skin. Instead, her breath caught in her throat as she spotted it—a scar snaking blue-white across the top of his thumb and hand and then disappearing up under the cuff of his trench coat. Charles .
    She jumped up and turned to go back into the station . . . and stopped herself. There was no way the police would help her. She considered Tucker Andersen. But he probably knew about the previous times she hoped she had seen Charles. He would not believe her, either.
    But she needed to report in. She dialed his number.
    There was no preamble. “What did you learn?” he asked instantly.
    “I couldn’t find anyone who knew anything new about the Library of Gold,” she told him truthfully. “All of them have the usual theories.”
    “Pity. Go back to the museum tomorrow. Spend the day.”
    “Of course.” She had bought herself some time.
    Opening her umbrella, she walked through the sidewalk’s lamplight, trying to gather her thoughts. Her marriage to Charles had not been perfect, but whose relationship ever was? With his death, the problems had vanished from her mind. She had loved him dearly, and she had thought he loved her. Fourteen years older, he was already celebrated in his career when they met. She remembered his walking into the classroom that first time; the long, confident strides. The handsome face that radiated intelligence and curiosity. He was the guest lecturer for an upper-division course where she was the assistant while working on her Ph.D. Quoting from Homer and Plato, he had charmed and impressed everyone.
    “ Gratias tibi ago , Dr. Sherback. Benigne ades ,” she had told him. Thank you. It was generous of you to come.
    The crowd of admirers had dwindled away to just him and her.
    He had peered down at her, taking her in. Then he spoke in Latin, too. “You remind me of Diana, goddess of the hunt, the moon, and protectress of dewy youth. Tell me, do you have an oak grove and a deer nearby?”
    She laughed. “And my bow and arrow.”
    “Ah, yes, but then you’re not only a huntress but an emblem of chastity. No wonder you need your weapons. I hope you won’t turn me into a stag as you did Acteon.” The goddess had transformed Acteon when he saw her bathing naked in a stream, then set her hunting dogs on him.
    “You are completely safe,” she assured him. “I have no dogs, not even a teacup poodle.”
    He laughed, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “I like a woman who can speak Latin and who knows the ancient gods and goddesses. Will you join me for a cup of coffee?”
    Colleagues, critics, and art lovers had admired him, and women had thrown themselves at him. But she was the one who had caught him. She had never suspected she was marrying a man who could pretend to be dead and send her to prison. But then, she like many others had been dazzled by him, by their lifestyle, and by her own dreams and ambitions.
    As she moved along the street, the rain was a constant tattoo on her umbrella. She must find Charles. All she had was the short video. The inspector was right. It was not going to be enough. She took out her cell phone again and dialed Peggy Doty. Peggy had gotten back her old job at the British Library so she could be close to her boyfriend, Zack Turner, and Eva was staying with her while in London.
    When Peggy’s sleepy voice answered, Eva apologized, then said, “Remember the time I covered for you at the Getty when you took off for Paris to meet Zack for a few days? And the time I showed you the secret glue that’s invisible and never fails? And then there was the time I blocked the sex-fiend tourist who was putting the moves on you.”
    There was a chuckle. “You must be desperate. What do you