Whitney felt the cold arithmetic of disaster click into place. If Szász’s man intercepted the codex before the sale, she wouldn’t just lose her commission—she’d be an accomplice to handling stolen goods. Her reputation, that painstakingly constructed cathedral of trust, would crumble.
After he left, she unlocked the safe, swapped the real codex for Ezra’s forgery, and locked the fake inside. The real one she placed in a Pringles can—because criminals are, above all, practical—and drove to a 24-hour post office. She addressed the package to the National Museum of Ireland, Dublin, with a note: Anonymous donation. For the permanent collection. No questions asked. whitney st john cambro
She had, after all, a reputation to maintain. Whitney felt the cold arithmetic of disaster click
“You’re thinner,” he said.
Albrecht stood. He was, Whitney noticed, very good at not showing what he felt. “You’re a dangerous woman, Mrs. St. John-Cambro.” After he left, she unlocked the safe, swapped