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place you can shine.”
    “Do you think there’s any major museum or lab that would have me after this? The Fiesole bronze has ruined me. I wish to God I’d never seen it.”
    Defeated, she sat on the rocks, staring out at the point where the lighthouse stood like white marble against a hard blue sky.
    “So, start your own lab.”
    “That’s a pipe dream.”
    “A lot of people said the same thing to me when I wanted to open the gallery in New York.” He sat beside her, cross-legged.
    She let out a short laugh. “The difference here might just be that I don’t intend to steal to outfit a business.”
    “We all do what we do best,” he said lightly. He took out a cigar, cupped his hands around the tip as he lighted it. “You have contacts, don’t you? You’ve got a brain. You’ve got money.”
    “I’ve got a brain and money. The contacts. . .” She moved her shoulders. “I can’t count on them now. I love my work,” she heard herself say. “I love the structure of it, the discovery. Most people think of science as a series of steps forged in concrete, but it’s not. It’s a puzzle, and not all of the pieces will ever be firmly in place. When you’re able to fit some of them together, to see an answer, it’s thrilling. I don’t want to lose that.”
    “You won’t, unless you give up.”
    “The minute I saw the Fiesole bronze, understood what the project was, I was totally entranced in the possibilities. I knew it was part ego, but who cared? I’d authenticate it, I’d prove how smart and clever I was, and my mother would applaud. The way mothers do watching their children on stage at a school play. With sentimental enthusiasm and pride.” She dropped her head on her knees. “That’s pathetic.”
    “No, it’s not. Most of us go through adulthood performing for our parents, and hoping for that applause.”
    She turned her head to study him. “Do you?”

    “I still remember the opening of my New York gallery. The moment my parents walked inside. My father in his good suit—the one he always wore to weddings and funerals—and my mother in a new blue dress, and her hair ruthlessly styled from a trip to Betty’s Salon. I remember the look on their faces. Sentimental enthusiasm and pride.” He laughed a little. “And not a little bit of shock. It mattered to me.”
    Turning her head, she rested her chin on her hands and looked out to sea again where the waves broke strong and white and cold. “I remember the look on my mother’s face when she fired me from the Fiesole project.” She sighed. “I would have handled disappointment or regret better than that ice-edged disdain.”
    “Forget the bronze.”
    “How can I? It’s what started this whole downhill slide. If I could just go back and see where I went wrong . . .” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Test it again like I did the David .”
    Slowly, she lowered her hands. Her palms had gone damp. “Like the David, ” she murmured. “Oh my God.” She sprang to her feet so quickly, for one wild moment Ryan feared she meant to jump.
    “Hold on.” He took a firm hold of her hand as he got to his feet. “You’re a little too close to the edge to suit me.”
    “It’s like the David .” She shoved away from him, then grabbed his jacket. “I followed procedure, step by step. I know what I had in my hands. I know it.” She pushed him again, spun away with a clatter of boots on rock. “I did everything right. I detailed everything. The measurements, the formulas, the corrosion levels. I had all the facts, all the answers. Someone switched it.”
    “Switched it?”
    “Like the David .” She rapped a fist on his chest as if to knock the truth into him. “Just like the David . What Ponti’s lab had was a forgery, but it wasn’t the same bronze. It was a copy. It had to be a copy.”
    “That’s a pretty big leap, Dr. Jones.” And the possibilities swam like fine wine in his head. “Interesting.”
    “It fits. It makes sense. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
    “Why?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Why isn’t it more logical that you made a mistake?”
    “Because I didn’t. Oh, I can’t believe I let this cloud what I know.” She pulled her hands through her hair, pressing her fists to the side of her head. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. When you’re told you’re wrong often enough, strongly enough, you believe it. Even when you aren’t wrong.”
    She began to walk, in those long,