“Wow.”

He must sense my lack of excitement because his mouth flattens and that snooty tone reemerges. “Where is Celine?”

There’s no great way to tell him. “You should probably put that egg back on the shelf.”

He frowns but complies.

And then I tell him that Celine is dead.

Hans, the self-proclaimed Fabergé expert, crumples onto the couch and begins to sob uncontrollably. I don’t really know what to do, so I simply sit down next to him and keep him company while he blubbers on. Outwardly emotional people and I have never meshed well.

Except for Celine, of course.

“But . . . but . . . how?” He peers at me in earnest. It’s a fair question. It’s the first question everyone asks. When it’s an acquaintance who wants to know, I’ve found myself lying and saying she had a heart condition.

“Too much vodka. Too many pills.”

Understanding fills his face. “You don’t think she really meant to . . . ?”

My simple shrug is enough to send him into another fit of tears.

“She was such a beautiful, kind person. Never judgmental. She used to let me talk her ear off about everything. But then I got busy with work and I kept canceling on her.” He blows his nose on a cloth handkerchief that he had tucked in his pocket. “I had no idea. I’m such a terrible person. She was truly one of my best friends.”

“Yeah . . . mine, too,” I say with a soft smile, adding quietly, “one of my only.” It’s only in the last few years that I’ve realized just how few people I’ve let get close to me, how short my list of must-call people when I’m back in America has become.

I’ve always done well with solitude.

“Wait, are you that friend of hers? You’re . . .” He snaps his finger in my face as he points at me.

“Maggie Sparkes.”

“Right.” He nods slowly, and that gleam of harsh judgment has all but faded from his eyes. “She always talked about you.” A long, awkward silence hangs between us as our gazes wander among the clutter. “I can’t believe she’s gone. What are you going to do with all of this stuff?”

“Good question.” I tell him about Rosa’s wishes.

“So you need to have everything appraised first. How are you planning on doing that?”

“I don’t know yet. I was reading up on it and I think my best option is to find an online appraisal company that can take care of her entire collection. At like, ten bucks an item, that’ll run me about . . . ,” I cringe, “ten grand, give or take?” I’m guessing the appraisal will be worth more than the sum total of everything in here. Truthfully, I’ll end up paying that out of pocket and padding the foundation generously in addition to it.

“Appraisals ‘R’ Us? Bite your tongue, woman!” Hans snaps. “Celine would be rolling in her grave if she heard you say that.”

“I don’t see any other options.”

He takes a deep breath, swallowing hard as he looks at the shelves across from us with calculation in his eyes. “If you catalogue everything, I can make some calls. Yes . . .” He nods slowly, his jaw set with fresh determination as he dabs the tears from his cheeks. “I know plenty of people in the industry and everyone owes me a favor. We can do this. And I know good dealers, too, who might be willing to buy outright, or sell on consignment. Put them all in storage and we can take our time finding the right buyers.”

“That’s . . .” I exhale, feeling suddenly lighter now that I have some educated help. “Thank you. I don’t know where to begin. Like, what do you mean by cataloguing?”

He mutters something in French. “Take pictures. Several, of different angles, including any markings. I can use them to help convince people to lend their expertise.”

“Pictures. I can do that.”

With his fingertip he traces the metal detail on the lockbox sitting on the coffee table. “Wow, eighteenth-century escutcheon.”

“Sure.” I smirk, though a part of me admires the guy for his vast knowledge. I can see why he and Celine were friends. They could geek out about art history in a way that she and I never could.

Hans absently picks up the picture of the naked mystery man, now lying on the floor by my feet, and unfolds it. His grief is temporarily suspended. “Well, hello . . . Who is this?”

The man who will be both Celine’s salvation and ruin? Those words gnaw at my conscience. “I have no idea. I take it you don’t know either?”

He frowns and shakes his head. “Why?”

“No reason. Just . . . curious.” I pluck the picture from his fingertips and stuff it in my purse. I’ll need it for the detective.

After a heartfelt hug and a few more quiet tears on his part, Hans and I exchange phone numbers and make plans to connect about Celine’s collection over the next week, and then I say good-bye.

I’ve barely sunk back onto the couch when there’s another knock on the door. I want to ignore it but I can’t, because each knock may bring a new piece of information about Celine.

The super is back. “Hi, how’s it going?” His gaze drifts over the pile of untouched cardboard flats, over the coffee table, covered with sentimental keepsakes. He shaved today, I notice, and made some effort with styling his hair.

“I got caught up in her things, and then obviously I fell asleep,” I say, waving my hands over the exact same pair of jeans and flannel shirt I had on when I last saw him.

He nods. “When my brother died a few years ago, I spent an entire week lost in his stuff. It’s overwhelming.” His eyes—a pretty mixture of hazel and green—wander the space again. “And there wasn’t nearly as much stuff to get lost in.”

His casual words pluck at my heart, reminding me that everybody has lost somebody. I instantly feel less alone.

After a pause he says, “Listen, I’m just going to pull that mattress out of here and then leave you to it, okay?”

He was serious about doing that?

He nods his head to the side, and a burly man appears. “I brought the muscle with me.”

I scan the super’s arms—lean and cut—and can’t help but smile, because he’s obviously attempting a joke. It’s all the more endearing, delivered with his light English accent.