She didn’t answer.
“You can’t stay here alone tonight,” Jack continued. “Not after this.”
“I’m not leaving.” Her voice stayed steady, but her hands trembled. “This is my home. My business. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Then I’ll stay.” He didn’t hesitate. “Storage room downstairs. I can monitor both entrances.”
“Jack, you don’t have to—”
“Yes. I do.” He glanced at the street, the rooftops, the alley mouth. “They crossed a line today. You think they’ll respect the next one?”
She looked back at the door. At the words carved into it.
Finally, she nodded.
“The storage room gives me clear sightlines,” he went on. “I’ll notify Martinez. He’ll send someone to process this. If anyone comes back, we won’t miss it.”
“And if they don’t?” she asked. “If they change tactics?”
“They want the locket,” he said. “They won’t destroy it by accident. That gives us leverage.”
She studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Then we do this carefully.”
“Always.”
He texted Martinez their location and the new threat.
When he looked up again, he saw resolve settling into her posture. Not calm. But not panic either.
“That message wasn’t just for me,” she said. “It was for both of us.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And we’re not ignoring it.”
They walked toward the diner together.
Jack took mental inventory as they moved—sightlines, exits, blind corners. Protection came first. Evidence second. Questions third.
Inside Red’s, a white bag waited on the counter.
They carried it back across the street.
They would eat in the shop. They would go through the Blackwood items piece by piece. They would follow the clues where they led. Whatever someone had tried to carve back into silence, Jack intended to bring into the light.
Chapter 4
The late afternoon sun slanted through the storefront windows of Annie’s Antiques, warming her skin as it spilled across the shop. The light softened the jagged edges of the chaos around her—overturned boxes, half-emptied crates, stacks of books waiting to be examined. The carefully styled displays she’d prepared for the grand opening now cast long, warped shadows across the scattered remnants of the Blackwood estate sale, transforming familiar objects into distorted silhouettes.
She stood in the doorway for a moment and let herself breathe.
After blood and sirens and carved threats, sunlight felt like mercy.
It didn’t erase what had happened. It didn’t quiet her mind. But it steadied her enough to move again.
She crossed the shop and knelt beside a wooden crate, its slats darkened with age. Inside, books lay stacked in uneven rows, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed, each one a piece of someone else’s past. She lifted the first volume out and carried it to the counter, setting it down before opening it carefully.
Her fingers moved with the ease of habit. She checked the inside covers for lifted paper or glued inserts. She ran gentle pressure along the spine, testing for hollow spaces. She turned each page slowly, letting her thumb ride the edges, alert to resistance or weight that didn’t belong.
She wasn’t browsing. She was searching.
