Although still half asleep, she distinctly remembered that Nigel had custody of the pooch on Friday night. How did the dog end up in her bed? And then she remembered—she wasn’t in her bed. The afternoon before, Conan Davies had insisted that both she and Nigel relocate to the museum “until we sort out this ‘Anonymous Bystander’ chap of yours.” At first, they both had been reluctant, but Conan refused to compromise. “The two of you in one place will be easier to watch over,” he had said. “Furthermore, now that our surveillance camera network is working, the museum is a very safe place to be.” He had rolled the “r” in very. “One of my lads will be on duty all night.” Conan had escorted them to their apartments, and each had packed the essentials for a night or two away from home. Flick wondered what time it was. She lifted her head and was able to glimpse the illuminated clock on her desk. Six forty-five a.m. She’d slept for more than seven hours. All things considered, pretty good for spending the night on an old sofa.
