“That’s ...a lot of people,” the curator said.
“Then we’d better get started.”Sophie pulled out her phone to text her team.This was going to be a long day, and she’d need backup.“Pierre, can you work with Dr.Yoshimura on the personnel angle?Look for anyone with connections to all three stolen items.”
“Of course.”Pierre was already pulling out his own notebook, a small leather one with an attached pencil.His investigative interest was clearly engaged.
Sophie turned to Marcus.“I want to walk through each theft site, compare them to the locations of potential targets.There might be a pattern we’re missing.”
As they prepared to leave the conference room, Sophie’s phone rang.The caller ID made her stomach tighten:Connor Standish.
Not that that moniker was his real identity—no one knew that.She’d changed his contact from just “Connor” six months ago, adding the Master’s last known surname, hoping it would create distance.
It hadn’t dulled the pain of seeing his name.He’d said he loved her, that he’d never leave her or the children ...
She let the call go to voicemail.Whatever the leader of the Yam Khûmk?n wanted could wait.She had a job to do, children to get home to, and a life that no longer included a man who’d chosen his work over love.
But as she followed Marcus through the museum’s halls and past displays of ancient Hawaiian treasures, the remembered scent of plumeria lingered in her nostrils.
What she’d felt for Connor had never been as strong as her bond with Jake.There was a mercy in that.
2
SOPHIE
Midmorning sun blazedoverhead by the time Sophie, Marcus, and Pierre emerged from the museum.The light painted Honolulu in vivid brushstrokes—sparkling off glass towers with emerald mountains rising like ancient guardians behind, and a sky so blue it made Sophie’s eyes water.
Sophie paused on the museum’s coral block steps, their surface warm beneath her feet even through her shoes.The air carried the mingled scents of plumeria from the museum gardens, diesel exhaust from passing tour buses, and beneath, that underlying salt smell of ocean that permeated everything in Hawaii.A mynah bird hopped along the museum’s neatly mowed lawn, its yellow beak and eye patches vivid in the morning light.It pecked at something in the grass—probably remnants from a tourist’s crumbs.
Sophie gazed out at the city she’d called home for years now.Tiled and corrugated roofs were clustered in neighborhoods she knew by heart, their streets shaded by wide monkeypod trees where she’d pushed Sean’s stroller while Momi skipped ahead to parks where the children played.
Somewhere out there, thieves were planning their next strike, calculating angles and escape routes with the same precision she’d once used in her former life as an FBI agent.And somewhere else—she checked her watch—her children were probably halfway through their snacks, with Armita patiently wiping sticky fingers and negotiating sharing disputes.
Both realities tugged at her; they were the duality of life as a working mother.She’d gotten good at walking that tightrope these past two and a half years; good at compartmentalizing, at being fully present whether she was analyzing crime scenes or bandaging scraped knees.
“The flower bothers me,” Pierre said, joining her on the steps.Marcus had gone to retrieve his car from the parking lot, leaving them momentarily alone with the morning crowds flowing around them.His shadow fell across hers, and she caught a whiff of his cologne—something subtle and expensive that he’d worn since their first meeting.“The plumeria is personal, specific,” Pierre continued, his voice thoughtful.Behind them, a tour group gathered, their guide’s voice carrying fragments of Hawaiian history on the breeze.“A plumeria is symbolic to you ...It’s possible this isn’t just about the artifacts.”
“I was wondering about that.”Sophie said.Pierre had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, seeing past the obvious.It was what made him such a good investigator, and such a good colleague and friend in more ways than one.
“Someone wants us to pay attention,” he continued, eyes scanning the cityscape as if the answers might be written there.“The question is—to what?The thefts themselves?The specific artifacts?Or ...”He paused, glancing at her.“To you?”
“Too soon to tell,” Sophie said.Her phone buzzed against her hip.She pulled it out, expecting another update from Bill about the children’s morning routine.Instead, she saw a text notification from Connor’s number on the screen.Her jaw tightened, but she opened the message anyway.
You’re going to want my help with this case.I’m sending someone.- C
“Arrogant son of a—” She bit off the curse as a family with young children passed them on the steps, the parents giving her a disapproving glance.The children, roughly Momi and Sean’s ages, were chattering excitedly about the museum’s exhibits, their voices high and sweet.
“Connor?”Pierre read her expression with the ease of long practice.His own face had hardened slightly—he knew most of their convoluted history and had opinions about it.
“Connor knows about the case.Of course he does.”She gripped the phone tighter with a familiar surge of anger that her on-again, off-again lover could provoke.His organization might be strained, but his surveillance network remained intact, especially when it came to her and her children.
Old habits, old obsessions, constantly updated technology.
“Connor wants to send help.”She shoved the phone back in her pocket with more force than necessary.“As if I need his help.As if he has any right to insert himself into my life whenever he?—”
“Sophie.”Pierre’s calm tone cut through her building tirade.A couple of tourists stared curiously, probably wondering about the conflict brewing on the museum steps.Pierre moved slightly, shielding her from view with his body.“Whatever his faults, Connor’s resources have been useful in the past.”
She wanted to argue, to list every time Connor’s “help” had complicated her life, but Pierre was right.Connor’s connections through the Yam Khûmk?n had provided crucial intelligence on more than one case.His people had access to information that official channels couldn’t touch, moved in circles where badges meant nothing.
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she growled.
