He continued some kind of massaging thing up and down my arm that was starting to affect my ability to concentrate. And the Vicodin was definitely kicking in.

“I told you from the start I’d be watching you like a hawk,” he said. “Did it slip your mind?”

“Everything’s slipping my mind,” I admitted. “Except I do recall that you said you’d be watching me because you thought I’d murdered Abraham.”

“Only for a moment,” he insisted.

“More like a week,” I nitpicked.

His lips curved. Then he nudged some ayurvedic energy point on my inner arm and I lost track of the conversation.

“… and then there was the fact that you were behaving rather suspiciously,” he was saying. “What else was I to think?”

I yawned. “Sorry.”

He tilted his head at me. “You need to sleep.”

“Yes.”

“You probably won’t remember much tomorrow.”

“I’ll remember you’re the hawk.” Had I said that out loud? How silly.

“Yes, remember the hawk.” He moved off the chair and knelt on the carpet next to the couch. “Before you drop off to sleep, there’s one thing I must do.”

“Yes?”

“Highly inappropriate behavior on my part,” he said, putting his hand on my cheek. “But it seems it can’t be helped.”

“Well, if it can’t be helped…”

But his lips were already brushing mine. His tongue outlined my bottom lip and electricity shot straight through me. My eyes glazed over as he moved his mouth along my chin, nibbling, planting light kisses, grazing my jaw, my ear, my forehead, with his lips as though he were memorizing the shape of my face. A nip here, a tiny lick there. It was torture. It was heaven.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and I tensed, then tried to sit up, but Derek stopped me.

“It’s all right,” he murmured.

“Commander,” an officer said. “We’d like your opinion out here.”

“Yes, of course.” He ran his finger along my jaw, then stood. “You’ll sleep now.”

“Could you… would you stay for a while?”

“I had no plans to leave.”

I awoke slowly, opened my eyes and was completely disoriented. I recognized the red chair, but why was it cockeyed? My table was out of whack, too. Plus, I hurt everywhere and wanted to cry.

But wait, I smelled bacon. Maybe life was worth living after all.

I pulled back the fuzzy blanket and sat up. And immediately lay down again. My head was about to explode.

“Oh, that’s not good.” The night before came back in a rush. The attack. Derek. The police. The kiss.

Oh yes. The kiss.

I let out a breath and tried to sit up again. So far, so good. I waited a few seconds, then pushed myself up to stand. I had to hold on to the arm of the couch for a minute, but I took halting steps and finally made it across the room.

I checked the kitchen and found bacon strips wrapped in paper towels and aluminum foil, sitting inside the warm oven. Coffee was made. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the refrigerator that read “Stay home and recuperate.” It was signed “The Hawk.”

I smiled as I poured a cup of coffee, then padded to the bathroom, where I took two pain relievers and stepped into the shower.

The hot water revived me enough to dress myself. The Hawk-Derek-was right. I’d already planned to work at home today, finish the Faust restoration and maybe get a head start on some other projects that I was behind on.

I dressed for comfort in jeans, a T-shirt and a warm sweater. Wool socks and my Birkenstocks completed the ensemble.

As I munched on bacon and read the paper, I couldn’t help smiling. The Hawk kissed like a dream. Remember the hawk, he’d said. I wasn’t likely to forget him any time soon.

“Remember the hawk,” I said, and chuckled as I took another bite of bacon and turned to the sports page.

Remember the devil. The words popped into my head unbidden.

“Whoa.” Something clicked and I jumped up. A spasm of pain vibrated across my skull and I sank back into my chair and clutched my head in my hands.

“Oh God.” I had to breathe through the pain. But the words began to spin around. Remember the hawk. The devil. Remember. Remember.

Remember the devil.

“Oh, you dimwit.” I stood more slowly this time, then walked as fast as I could to the studio, straight to the bookshelf where the blue leather cover shone like a beacon.

Wild Flowers in the Wind.

I pulled it from the shelf. The soft leather felt cool in my hands. I splayed the covers and the book fell open to page 213.

Pilosella aurantiaca. Hawkweed, otherwise known as the devil’s paintbrush.

Remember the devil.

Old memories came rushing back as I groped for my desk chair and sat. I was eight years old and I’d chosen the wildflower book from a shelf full of decrepit tomes Abraham kept for the purpose of practicing craft. He’d scoffed at my choice and had begun reading out loud the descriptions of some of the more noxious flowers as I’d gathered tools to start my work. I’d laughed with him, agreeing that it was silly that someone actually considered these ugly-looking plants to be flowers. But I’d still wanted to work with this book because the title was so pretty.

Wild Flowers in the Wind.

Abraham had regaled me with the shortcomings of the dreaded Pilosella aurantiaca. Its stiff leaves and petals were covered in short, rigid hairs, its stems and leaves were black, and the flower itself was the color of rust. And it smelled bad.

“No wonder the devil uses it for a paintbrush,” he’d said with a laugh, and succeeded in charming his too-serious, rather needy eight-year-old apprentice.

The poor devil plant hadn’t deserved our derision, I supposed. But it was one of those shared moments between teacher and student I would always treasure.

“Some treasured memory,” I said, mentally flogging myself, wondering why I hadn’t remembered it until this minute.

My mother would’ve told me the truth wasn’t meant to be revealed until this moment, but that dubious bit of wisdom didn’t assuage my remorse.

I shook it off. My feelings didn’t matter. The fact was, I’d just found what I’d been searching for since Abraham was killed.

Chapter 18

I ran my fingers over the aged, deckled paper. There, wedged between pages 212 and 213, next to the fuzzy photograph of the devil’s paintbrush, were several pieces of notepaper, thinned and yellowed with age.

My hand shook as I pulled the pages out and unfolded them. It was a three-page letter, written in German.

The date written on the first page was 8 September 1941. The ink was faded but the handwriting looked feminine to me. I checked the last page and saw that the letter was signed “Gretchen.”

This had to be what Abraham meant by GW1941. But who was Gretchen?

Perhaps after reading the letter, I would know. Beyond excited, I found my bag, pulled out the English-German dictionary I’d bought to help translate Faust and settled down at the worktable to decipher the correspondence.

The letter was addressed to “Sigrid” and at one point in the text, Gretchen referred to her as “liebe schwester” or “dear sister.”

Forty minutes later, I closed the dictionary and pushed away from the table. My excitement had turned to distress. I powered up my laptop and spent a few minutes online, Googling additional information. Then I walked around the room, lost in thought. After a few minutes, my stunned silence grew to vocal anger and I pounded the worktable a few times.

“Gretchen, you stupid coward.”

Saying the name aloud gave me a jolt. In Goethe’s Faust, Gretchen was the virtuous young woman destroyed by Faust, but her real name was Marguerite. As I’d just learned, “Gretchen” was a common German diminutive for Marguerite. A nickname.

Heinrich Winslow’s wife’s name was Marguerite. Also affectionately known as Gretchen. But unlike her fictional namesake, Heinrich Winslow’s wife was all too real and completely responsible for so much destruction.