And now, less than twenty minutes after the biker had left, here came the rookie cop with another music box and a story that would’ve been laughable if it wasn’t so obvious.
He buzzed the door, all cocky confidence, that box tucked under his arm like evidence he was about to plant.She could ignore him.Slip out the back for an early lunch and let him stand there until he gave up.
But he wouldn’t give up.She could see it in the set of his shoulders.He was on a mission.
Fine.Let’s see how this plays out.
She hit the buzzer and released the locks.
He walked toward the counter with that particular strut rookies had before the job beat it out of them.She barely glanced up—quick assessment, eyebrow arch, then back to her inventory like he wasn’t worth her full attention.
The box landed on her counter with a soft thump.He waited, drumming his fingers against the glass.Cleared his throat.She fought a smile.
Patience isn’t your virtue, is it, junior?
“What, am I invisible?”he finally said.Northern accent—not local.Not even close.
He was easy to read.Hot temper.Thought he was God’s gift to law enforcement.Badge still shiny.He’d come from a big city to Idaho, where the departments were small and the pace slower.You didn’t make that kind of move for career advancement.You made it because you needed to start over or because a woman had brought you here.This one didn’t look like he’d cross state lines for anyone but himself.
Mia kept her eyes on the gold pieces she was weighing, but raised one finger in acknowledgment.
“Are you kidding me?”His voice rose.“I’m a paying customer.”
She continued her count, marking purity and weight on her pad, entering numbers into her database with deliberate precision.Then she pulled out an envelope, labeled it in neat handwriting, and set it aside.
“Listen,” he said.“I don’t like being ignored.If I don’t get some service pretty quick, things are going to get real uncomfortable for you.”
“Settle down, junior.”She met his eyes—cold assessment, no fear.“I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“I don’t have a minute.”His hand moved toward his back pocket—going for credentials he thought would make her jump.
She smiled, sweet as poisoned honey, and reached for the shotgun.Just enough to let him see it.“You might want to rethink that move.”
His eyes went wide.His hand froze mid-reach.Then came the anger—hot and reckless, flashing across his face like lightning.
Good,she thought.Anger makes you stupid.
“Relax.”She set the shotgun back down, deliberately casual.“What can I help you with?”
He took a breath, wrestled his temper under control, and pushed the box toward her.That cocky smile was back, but now she could see the cracks in it.
“I just want to know how much I can get for this.”
Mia lifted the lid.Another music box—wooden, antique, quality craftsmanship.Early twentieth century if she wasn’t mistaken.She lifted it carefully, turned it over to examine the maker’s mark.
“Nice piece,” she said.“But you know I’ll need to verify it’s not stolen before I can buy it.”
“It’s not stolen.Belonged to my grandmother.She just passed.”
The lie came smooth—too smooth.He’d been practicing.Which meant he’d been planning this visit.Which meant someone had sent him to her shop specifically.
Interesting.
“Sorry for your loss,” she said, no sympathy in her voice.
“Thanks.”
She wound the key, watched the mechanism turn, listened to the delicate notes fill the space between them.It really was beautiful—the kind of thing that should be in a museum, not pawned by a rookie cop playing dress-up.
