The creaking sound came again—definitely from the King’s Suite above, the corner bedroom.Marcus took point, Sophie covering his six, Pierre bringing up the rear.
The door to the suite stood ajar.Through the gap, Sophie could see the room’s Victorian furnishings: an ornate carved bed where Kalakaua had slept, the desk where he’d written correspondence to other monarchs, asserting Hawaii’s place among nations, and composed the lyrics to “Hawai?i Pono?i,” now the state anthem.
Marcus counted down on his fingers—three, two, one—and swept inside with Sophie on the other side of his advance.“HPD!Nobody move!”
But the room was empty except for an open window, its lace curtains billowing in the light trade winds.A gilded candlestick lay on its side on the polished floor beside Kalakaua’s writing desk.Next to it was a plumeria blossom, so fresh that dewdrops still clung to its petals.
“Dammit.”Marcus holstered his weapon as he bent to examine the blossom.“They were just here.”
Sophie moved to the window, careful not to touch anything.Below stretched the palace’s manicured grounds—the same view the king would have seen every morning.The Coronation Pavilion, built for Kalakaua and Kapi?olani’s formal coronation in 1883, stood empty on the lawn and cast geometric shadows across the grass.
No sign of anyone on the grounds.
Had the intruder chosen this room specifically?Why not the Queen’s Suite across the hall where Lili?uokalani had been imprisoned under house arrest after the overthrow, not the library where she’d composed“Aloha ?Oe,”but Kalakaua’s personal space?Could the choice of location be a piece of the puzzle?
Sophie frowned.“What is this thief playing at?”
“I don’t know,” Raveaux said, reaching her side.
Marcus got on his radio, calling for backup to sweep the area—all eleven acres of the estate.
“They must have known we’d be coming,” Sophie said, unease causing her spine to prickle.“Someone could be watching us.”
“But why take this kind of risk and ...not steal anything?”Raveaux gestured around the King’s Suite with elegant hands, his movements encompassing the Victorian furnishings, the heavy koa wood furniture, a crystal chandelier that had witnessed the last days of Hawaiian independence.Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like spirits of the past.“They didn’t even take those.”He gestured to the mantelpiece.
Sophie studied the silver candlesticks resting on the raised shelf—nineteenth-century pieces that could fetch considerable sums on the black market.They were undisturbed, their surfaces still bearing the careful polish of the palace preservation staff.Above them hung a portrait of King David Kalakaua, the “Merrie Monarch,” his eyes seeming to follow her movements with an expression both regal and melancholic.
“The whole thing is bizarre,” Marcus said, watching as Sophie photographed the plumeria.The flower lay against the deep burgundy of the carpet like a fallen star.The morning light revealed subtle variations in its coloring—not pure white as she’d first thought, but touched with the faintest lemon yellow, like sun on sand.
Sophie pulled on latex gloves with practiced efficiency, the familiar snap of rubber against skin grounding her in the present even as the room’s history pressed in from all sides.She carefully lifted the flower noting how it had been placed with deliberate precision at the exact center of the room, equidistant from all four walls.Someone had cared about the presentation.
“Evidence bag?”she asked, and Marcus handed her one from his kit.The plastic crinkled as she sealed the plumeria inside, another piece of the puzzle.
Standing in the room where Hawaii’s last king had once paced the floors, dreaming of preserving his nation’s independence against the rising tide of American imperialism, Sophie felt the weight of years pressing down.King Kalakaua had died in San Francisco’s Palace Hotel in 1891, far from these shores he’d fought to protect.His sister, Queen Lili?uokalani, had been imprisoned in an upstairs bedroom of this very palace after the overthrow, composing mournful songs that would outlive her kingdom.
And now someone was using these rooms as a stage for their own drama, leaving blossoms like breadcrumbs in a dangerous fairy tale.
A feather brush of anxiety traced down Sophie’s spine—not for herself, but for what the flowers might mean.
Three crime scenes, three flowers, each deliberately chosen.In her experience, such specificity meant personal connection.Personal threat.
“Something tells me I need to increase security at home,” she said, already reaching for her phone.The device in her hand felt heavier than usual, loaded with responsibility and all the calls she needed to make.“In case these plumerias are a message for me.”Sophie forced herself to think like an investigator rather than a mother whose instincts were screaming warnings.“The specificity matters.These aren’t just any flowers—they have meaning for me.”
“They could as easily be a message for any one of us,” Marcus said, though his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe it.“But I can ask to have patrol units do extra sweeps of your neighborhood.HPD takes care of its own.”
Sophie smiled at her friend, grateful for the offer even as she knew its limitations.“Thanks, but I doubt that will help.”Her tone carried the firm certainty of someone who’d learned the hard way that conventional security measures meant little against serious enemies.“I have a very secure home.We won’t need anything but possibly some additional personnel, which Security Solutions can provide.I must minimize disruptions for the children.”
The children.Always, her thoughts circled back to them.Momi, now five, with her father Alika’s stubborn chin and her mother’s quick mind, still asking why Uncle Connor had vanished from their lives like smoke.The questions came at unexpected moments—during bath time, over breakfast, in the quiet minutes before sleep.“Where did Uncle Connor go, Mama?Did we do something bad?”
And Sean, two and a half years old and brimming toddler energy, had finally stopped calling for “Unco!”every time the gate alert chimes rang.
He’d never known his father Jake, would have no memories of the man who’d died before his birth.But he’d had Connor for those early months, had learned to walk holding those skillful hands, had been sung to sleep by a man who ordered death with equal gentleness.
Her children didn’t need more upheaval; they’d already lost enough.
“At least accept the help Connor’s offering,” Pierre suggested, his voice gentle but insistent.He knew her well enough to recognize the signs of her internal debate—pride warring with pragmatism, independence fighting with protectiveness.“Additional trained security couldn’t hurt.”
Sophie moved to the window, looking out at the palace grounds where history had been made and unmade.Below, a docent was leading a tour group, her voice carrying faintly through the glass as she explained how the palace had been the first building in Honolulu to have electricity, even before the White House.Progress and tradition, innovation and preservation—these were forever in tension in Hawaii.
