“I’m starting to like this room, Steve,” he said to the dog as they stretched out on the white quilt. “Like its owner, it has infinite possibilities.” Steve sighed and put his head between his paws and Davy scratched his ears. “You’ve really got a thing for her, don’t you? Good thinking on your part. She’ll never let you down. Dog biscuits and sleeping on the bed for life.” Steve rolled his head to one side a little to listen, and Davy thought about Tilda, taking care of everybody, desperate to get those paintings back so people wouldn’t find out her father sold forgeries. That had to be it. There had to be something wrong with those paintings, something dangerous enough to make Tilda turn to crime. Because she wasn’t a natural at it, that was for sure. He spared a moment to wonder what Tilda would have been like if his dad had raised her instead of hers. Not much difference, he decided. Some people were straight clean through. They never got that insane buzz that sliding into forbidden territory set up in the blood, when every nerve ending sharpened and hummed, and every sound and scent was magnified.
