I yank,hard, and the satchel breaks free from his grasp, but it rips the drawstring closure. “Hey!” he shouts through the box. “That is not properly packaged material for the United States Postal Service!”
“I’m aware!” I shout through the box. “We’ll repackage it properly and return!”
“See that you do!” he shouts through the parcel box.
The black satchel is dusty and has smears of blood on it. I shift the bag around on my hip. It’s heavy—far heavier than I expected—and it jangles like money.
I tug at the draw string and it tangles. My heart races, but I manage to open it.
Spirit sends a burst of blinding light shooting forth from the satchel, and a church choir singing the “Hallelujah” chorus.
Thank you, Spirit, I chuckle.I needed that.
There are dozens and dozens of diamond necklaces, brooches, hatpins, bracelets, wallets, money clips, fancy writing pens, watches, pocketknives—the sheer amount ofstuffsurprises me. It’s as if my pickpocket friends and I had raided three parties and not just the one.
And there, at the bottom of the bloody bag, in the depths of a dirty satchel in the middle of the main Manhattan post office, sits the largest diamond in the world. The Hope Diamond.
I gasp. I hadn’t yet seen it up close. It is so much larger than I realized. I can’t resist it. I ease my finger toward it…
And when I touch it, I get a rushing, windy sensation. I picture stars and the fuzzy purple-pink line of the Milky Way and the Earth spinning and quaking and grinding stone against stone, until there, at the heart of it all, a massive blue diamond is born.
The gem is cold and the depth of its color surprises me.
And then, another sensation washes over me. It’s unfamiliar at first; it feels like hunger. Like need. And I realize—it’s greed. I could take this bag and walk out the opposite door. I could screw over the others, take this heavy bag of wealth, and literally hide on the other end of this continent, living out the rest of my days.
I withdraw my hand. How quickly greed fills us. How empty it leaves us.
The drawstring is tangled again, the bag gaping open.
I shift the heft of the bag onto my shoulder.
We swing the door shut, lock it, and bring the key to the front desk. I toss the key on the counter and mumble, “We found this.”
And we leave.
And we jangle. Loudly.
And we smile.
Oh, do we smile.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Outside, an officer patrols nearby Mail Street, fingering his billy club. My breath catches. Spirit offers me the sound of screeching trolley brakes.
He definitely sees me. I offer a timid wave. He scowls, then raises two fingers to the rim of his hat.
He turns and patrols the other way.
The general chaos outside the Potter Building remains: paparazzi and zealots and police officers trying to contain it all. I can’t resist peeking out from under my sheet of hair—and I lock eyes with one of the most zealous zealots. Her eyebrows raise, and she points at me across Park Row. “Her! She’s one ofthem!”
I’m so rattled, I drop the black satchel. The tangled draw string allows for a spill of shiny, golden baubles on the sidewalk. I scramble to scoop them back inside the sack.
“Ahem!”
I jump, and the police officer is suddenly behind me. I scoop up the last of the items, fold the satchel closed, and cram it in the crook of my arm.
“Everything okay, miss?”
