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“Oh, why is that?”

Instead of answering my question, he announced, “We’ve been invited to the Etruria Foundation’s gala weekend in two weeks.”

I nearly shot out of my seat. The Etruria Foundation was the top research institute in Etruscan archaeology. It was run by a wealthy Italian philanthropist, who held an annual gala at his villa on Lake Como. Invitations to the event were greatly coveted, as was the postdoc fellowship the foundation gave away every other year. I desperately wanted that fellowship and Professor Harris knew it. In fact, he’d promised to help me get it when I first started working for him. I hadn’t dared broach the subject since I’d made a fool of myself over the summer, although I had submitted my application. Harris’s recommendation would mean everything, as would the opportunity to speak to Giancarlo Visconti in person.

“That’s amazing, Professor.” I beamed at him. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

He sighed and shook his head. “No, dear. The invitation is for me and Peter. I’m afraid graduate assistants are not invited.”

I shrank into myself and closed my eyes, desperately trying to conceal my disappointment. “Of course . . . I just, um, you said you had excellent news.”

“Well, yes. I’m entrusting you with the creation of the slideshow of my work”—he never said our work—“for the awards dinner. You will be credited, of course.”

Fantastic. More grunt work when I should be finishing my dissertation. Not that I felt very inspired on that point anymore, not since my thesis had been debunked by my own “discovery.”

“There is more news, and this does concern you.” He sat back, his gaze roaming over me, and I could only imagine how bad I must look in my old T-shirt and a raggedy ponytail after a morning spent knee-deep in the dirt.

“You may have heard I’ve been offered a new documentary series with the History Channel called Incredible Hoaxes.”

“I had heard something about it.”

“Well, then you’ll be pleased to know that you may be featured in an episode. The object you found over the summer was one of the cleverest fakes I’ve seen in a long time. In fact, it gave me the idea for the documentary series.” He smiled, full lips parting over spectacularly white veneers. I stared at them as I ground my own back teeth.

Great. This was exactly what I needed. Another reminder of my colossal failure. My face all over the History Channel as the gullible grad student who thought she’d made a groundbreaking discovery only to have her mentor and childhood hero prove her wrong in the most public and humiliating of ways. With my luck, it would be syndicated.

“I . . . really, Professor? Does it merit an entire episode?” I croaked.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling laugh that pushed against the buttons of his starched shirt. His blue eyes creased and those veneers sparkled. As a kid, I’d had a huge crush on him, and he was still a handsome man even in his early sixties, but he suddenly repulsed me. “Not an entire episode, dear girl. Perhaps one day you will be expert enough in your field to have an entire episode to your name. But as it stands, that’s rather doubtful, isn’t it?”

I rubbed the small bump on the bridge of my nose as tears pricked my eyes. I refused to cry about this, but god, I’d rarely felt so small. As always in awkward situations, I fondled the locket that I wore around my neck, the one with the photo of Josh holding up our meteorite. What would he do in this situation? He’d stand up for himself, and dammit so would I.

“Professor Harris, I know I got a bit carried away with my discovery. I shouldn’t have rushed to a conclusion.” Even now when I thought about seeing the object—a black cup, an Etruscan bucchero—for the first time, just sitting there on a shelf between family photos and a paperback copy of Zorba the Greek, I shivered. I had so desperately wanted to believe that it was authentic, that I’d finally discovered something. My first thought had been Josh is going to be so proud! I couldn’t wait to tell him and then came the horrible realization that I could never tell him. I still had those moments even eight years after his death.

“I’ve learned from the experience, Professor, and I won’t make the same mistake again. But I don’t think it negates the thesis of my entire dissertation. I do think it deserves further research, which is why I want the Etruria Foundation Fellowship. It would be a career-altering opportunity to go to the fundraising weekend. And though I appreciate the offer to be part of the documentary, I’m afraid I’m not interested.” The words came out in a rush, and I was so frustrated with myself for once again playing it small. For not feeling like I deserved a modicum of respect for the work I’d put in so far on this dig and others.

“Diana,” he sighed, “as I’ve already made clear the invitation to the weekend is limited to two people. And as far as the documentary is concerned, you’ve already implicated me in the whole affair. So I’m afraid the decision is no longer yours to make.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a hand and I pressed my lips together. He leaned closer, reaching to take my hand across the desk from where I’d flattened it over the notes.

“We all make mistakes . . . well, some of us do anyway. And as they say, no publicity is bad publicity, so I wouldn’t worry too much about the documentary having a negative effect on your chances of getting the fellowship.” He drew his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand and I forced myself not to recoil. “Ah, and more good news. Helen would like you to come to her luncheon this Wednesday.”

“Um, okay.” My head was still spinning with so many competing emotions that I barely registered the change in topic until he asked me the dreaded question.

“Will you be bringing your fiancé?”

Chapter 2

Diana

Would I be bringing my fiancé? My very fake fiancé. The one I’d invented for a reason I didn’t want to admit—another misinterpretation of evidence that embarrassed me to even think about.

I blamed Pete. He was the one who insinuated that Professor Harris had hired me for one reason and one reason only, and it had nothing to do with my dissertation topic or my shining letters of recommendation. When I’d first met Pete, he’d frowned, given me a once-over, and sighed. “What a surprise! He’s hired another attractive young woman.”

Then he’d shoved a pamphlet about Title VII sexual harassment at me and led me into Harris’s office. I’d been fuming and refused to believe it. This man was old enough to be my dad and he was my childhood hero. Pete was just jealous—he wanted to be Harris’s right-hand man. And in the weeks that followed Professor Harris never did anything inappropriate. Still, occasionally I noticed a lingering touch here and there. His hand hovering over the small of my back, his lack of personal space. So, at one of his wife’s luncheons, and I blurted out a big, fat lie: I was engaged.

A totally unnecessary lie it turned out, because Harris had never suggested anything untoward. Instead of ending my own ruse there, I continued to embellish it.

“What is your fiancé’s name again?” Harris asked. “I can never seem to remember.”