“I want that locket opened the right way,” he continued. “No forcing it. No damage. If Eleanor hid something, she intended it to be found intact.”
“I have some tools upstairs that might work.” Annie rose, then hesitated. “Jack, something else happened earlier. A woman came in with her daughter. Sarah Mitchell.”
The name triggered immediate recognition.
“I know who she is,” he said.
Her eyebrows lifted. “You do?”
“I know where the name sits.” He held her gaze. “Go on.”
“She asked if her little girl could use the bathroom. The child really did seem desperate, but they were back there longer than they should have been.” Annie’s fingers worked the edge of the photograph. “And she kept looking around. Not browsing. Assessing.”
“You think she was gathering information.”
“I think she wasn’t here for antiques.” Annie inhaled slowly. “And now we find out she’s connected to the Blackwood's.”
“You think she scratched the message into the back door?”
She shook her head. “No. That started after she left. You would’ve seen her go into the alley.”
That matched his memory. Sarah Mitchell had exited calmly, walking east, not toward the back lot. Which meant if she was involved, she wasn’t working alone.
“I’ll check the bathroom,” Annie said, already moving.
Jack watched her navigate the tight path between tables and shelves, aware of how easily blind spots formed in a space like this. He followed moments later.
The bathroom showed no immediate disturbance. Clean. Tidy. Old. Cracks in the tile and faint discolorations spoke to time, not tampering. Then he noticed the small drilled hole in the wall beside the toilet. He crouched, peering through it, catching a sliver of daylight from the alley.
A sightline.
Not dangerous by itself. But useful.
“How long has that hole been there?” he asked when they returned to the front.
“Since I moved in. The previous owner said it was for wiring.”
Jack nodded once. “I’ll patch it. Today.”
She studied him. “You think someone used it.”
“I think someone noticed it,” he said. “And that’s enough.”
He pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling Martinez. I want surveillance footage pulled from every street cam on this block going back two weeks, and I want a full background on Sarah Mitchell. Finances. Associates. Family connections. Especially to Richard Henry Mitchell and the Blackwood estate.”
When the call connected, he repeated the instructions, then ended it and remained still for a moment, letting the pieces reorder themselves.
A focused theft. Weeks of surveillance. An attack timed while Annie was at the station. A warning carved into her door. And now a building potentially compromised from the inside.
This wasn’t random violence.
This was containment.
Someone believed something had escaped their control.
“You can’t stay here alone tonight,” Jack said.
