Agatha rises, walks past the painting, and touches Eve’s chin with one cool finger. “The Modigliani is a fake, of course. Gorgeous work—Carla in Milan, yes? Her cadmium red is unmistakable. But the real problem…” Agatha reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper—Eve’s real identity. Real name. Real hometown. Real failure from a job in Budapest two years ago. “…is that you left a trail. Not a big one. But I’m very good at finding things.”