A comfortable silence settles as we examine the map in more detail. Two Xs are drawn near the shore. Next to them, MJ’s block letters form the question,Two blind mice?
We exchange a glance but say nothing. The note reminds me of a nursery rhyme, only much creepier.
Finally, we reach the bottom of the box. There’s a thick manila folder stuffed with loose pages. Realization sets in once I spot a few notes about a cache of diamonds.
“Holy shit.” I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s real.”
Aurora flips through the rest of the folder as I read over her shoulder.
We find scribblings about an email MJ received from a low-level prison administrator a few weeks before his release. The subject line, according to MJ, was “Updated Commissary List.” The email contained information about a hidden diamond cache worth twenty million dollars.
When we read that last line, Aurora whistles.
The notes continue. While MJ listed his suspicions, he believed the email was a potential trap too valuable to ignore.
“What the hell?” Aurora lifts up a page. “The email was only sent to MJ and later disappeared from his inbox. Look at what he wrote next!”
I take the page from her and skim the rest of my brother’s notes.
The prison admin who sent the email died the following day in a one-car crash. Afterward, MJ began his own carefulinvestigation in prison. He continued to search for the diamonds after his release.
In his notes, MJ concluded that the administrator was either corrupt, involved in a dirty deal he got silenced for, or truly the victim of an awful accident. Regardless, MJ believed himself to be the sole secret owner of a very real—and very dangerous—lead.
On the final page, dated just over a week before MJ’s murder, he circled, underlined, and drew an arrow to one name.
Chloe D. Kindergarten. Northwood Elemen.There’s another note in hurried script that reads,She has the diamond cache. In classroom.
I rise from the dusty floor, pulling Aurora with me. “We have to meet with Roman.”
Chapter 50
Alexei
The war room door is heavy as I push it open, Aurora close behind me. Surrounded by barren white walls, the massive mahogany table in the center takes up less than half the space. There’s room enough for fifty people to walk around freely as they discuss problems. Anything that’s needed during discussions is brought in. But conferences here always start with a blank canvas.
And most importantly, there’s no place to hide listening devices.
Roman sits at the head of the long wooden table, fingers steepled under his chin. The others are already here, likely hashing out what happened at Verge Gallery and how we’re going to respond.
Vitaly slouches in his chair, and Kolya stands like a sentinel behind Roman. Kirill and Vanya’s hushed conversation dies as we enter. The air reeks of cigars and vodka and fury so thick I could cut the odor with a knife.
I guide Aurora forward, daring anyone to challenge her presence.
No one does.
“Nephew.” Roman inspects Aurora’s bandaged arm, the dust from the attic still smudged on the pale blue sundress she changed into after the ambush. “And niece.”
The word hangs in the air as a reminder in case anyone forgot.
Niece.
Family.
Not an outsider. Not a liability.
He’s acknowledging Aurora as my wife.
As one of us.
