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She leaned over his elbow to look at the mail. Bills, junk mail, something to Alain Ngo from the University of British Columbia.
    “He never wore one in the books, you know. That’s—”
    “A cinematic invention that became part of the folk process,” Liz finished, rolling her eyes. “I know.”
    “I heard that eye roll,” he said, not looking up from the mail. “What was the gallery Blake told you about?”
    She frowned. “I’m not sure—it’s in an email. Something with an M, I think.”
    “The Morgenstern Gallery?” He pulled flyers out of the stack and handed them to her with a flourish.
    “That sounds right.” She stared at glossy paper. Carving Spirals: sculpture and paintings by Gemma Pagan . The Seduction of Gravity: photographs by Robert Files . Black Dogs and Blue Girls: photography by Alain Ngo. “This must be it.”
    Alex arched an eyebrow. “What do you think, Watson? Shall we investigate?”
    T HE M ORGENSTERN G ALLERY was three stories of red brick, wedged into a row of art and music stores along Granville Street. On the sign above the glass double-doors, a faceless angel lifted a star. Its halo was black, an absence of light, and golden wings dissolved into smoke and flame. A poster in the window advertised the newest exhibit.
    Deaths and Entrances: Transitions in photography, sculpture, and oils. Open to the public December 20 nd through January 25 th . Private showing December 19 th @8:00 PM .
    The gallery was closed, but lights were on inside. Pressing her face against the glass, Liz saw movement. She rubbed the oily nose-smudge off the door—then, before she could stop herself, she knocked.
    At first the figures inside ignored her, but after the third knock a dark-haired woman emerged from the shadows. Her sigh was audible even before she threw the bolt and pushed the door open a few inches.
    “We’re closed,” she said, a German accent sharpening consonants already crisp with annoyance. She was tall to begin with, and the doorstep gave her another few inches of imperious height. “The next exhibit opens—”
    “I’m sorry,” Liz interrupted, voice cracking. Anxiety clenched cold fingers around her throat and stomach. Her cheeks burned with nerves and her tongue felt three sizes too big. For Blake, she reminded herself when she wanted to turn and run. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Elizabeth Drake, and this is Alex McLure. We’re friends of Blake Enderly’s. I can’t get in touch with him, and I was hoping maybe someone here could help.”
    The final syllable came out a squeak, the last of her courage run dry. The woman’s eyes widened and she leaned back, dragging the door open another inch. “Oh.”
    A man stepped up behind her, filling the gap in the doorway. “What is it?”
    The woman glanced at him. “They’re friends of Blake’s.”
    “Oh.” He blinked in a nearly identical double-take. His eyes were unnervingly pale in the shadows. “Then you know about the accident?” His eths were zees, like the woman’s.
    “We don’t know anything,” Liz said, her voice rising in frustration. “Only that something’s wrong and we can’t reach him. What accident?”
    The man sighed and dragged a hand through his short brown hair. “It’s... not a long story, perhaps, but an unhappy one. There’s a café just down the street—would you like to get some coffee and hear it?”
    A ND SO THEY ended up two blocks away at Café Al Azrad. Red awnings cracked in the breeze and light glowed from the windows—only early afternoon, but clouds rolled off the sea and the day greyed and dimmed. Warm air gusted over them as Rainer—Rainer Morgenstern, the gallery’s owner—held the door for them. Liz sighed as she breathed in coffee and cinnamon, and Alex’s shoulders straightened from a pained hunch.
    As they stepped inside, a picture caught Liz’s eye—a framed print dark against the sandstone wall. She moved closer and froze, even when Alex collided with her