Chapter 2

The bell never rang, but I still woke up three times.

The first time it was the door in the next room closing. The second time someone started a pickup in the parking lot. The third time the vending machine at the end of the hall went clack and spat out a canned drink.

None of the sounds were loud, but each was enough to drag me out of light sleep. I lay there staring at the yellow water stain on the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing down.

I don’t like nights that slip out of my control. I like them even less when it’s the first night after filing for divorce and I’m sleeping in a motel like a man who got kicked out.

My phone lit up in the dark—a number not in my contacts. I glanced at the time: 2:16 a.m. Not many people call at that hour.

I answered and kept my voice low. “Talk.”

There was a half-second pause. Then a familiar male voice came through, no small talk, like he was reporting the weather. “Flying Eagle, someone’s coming for you.”

Flying Eagle is my callsign. In this line of work, you don’t use your real name.

I sat up straighter, eyes sweeping the door. The little bell stayed silent. “Who?”

“Not sure yet,” my boss said, steady. “But the tip came through an internal channel. It’s solid. You back in the city?”

“Just got in,” I said.

“Then be careful.” He paused, like he needed to know the words landed. “Keep the brooch on you. If it gets tight, contact me immediately. Don’t get tangled with anyone you shouldn’t. Understand?”

“Understood.”

I didn’t say anything else. I pulled the black velvet box out of my travel bag, set it on the bed, and opened it.

The moment the lid lifted, my head went blank—there was nothing inside.

I snapped it shut and opened it again, faster. Still empty. The eagle-shaped brooch, the ruby eyes, the tiny stones—gone clean, as if it had never existed.

Like an idiot, I tipped the box and gave it a small shake, just to be sure it wouldn’t magically appear.

I should’ve checked when I packed. Looks like catching my wife cheating had rattled my brain more than I wanted to admit.

“Flying Eagle?” my boss pressed.

“I’m here.” I clenched the empty box in my palm. “I’ll handle it.”

He didn’t add much, just a final line. “Call if anything goes wrong.”

I didn’t swear. I didn’t smash anything. Emotion only slows your thinking when seconds matter.

I stuffed everything back into the bag, yanked the zipper closed, grabbed my jacket, and headed out.

God willing, the brooch was still in the house.

The hallway was empty.

The front desk light was still on. A young night clerk was slumped over the counter scrolling his phone. I walked past him and he looked up—curious, like where’s this guy going at this hour—but he didn’t say a word.

I didn’t explain. I pushed through the door.

Cold wind hit me in the parking lot, carrying damp air and gasoline. I got into my car, started the engine, dimmed the headlights, and rolled out toward downtown.

If my boss said someone was coming for me, he wasn’t joking.

Twenty minutes later I parked at the entrance to my street, not in my driveway. I tucked the car into the shadow of a large tree.

I got out and walked along the sidewalk. My shoes pressed into wet grass at the curb, nearly silent.

I didn’t go in through the front. I circled around, hopped a low hedge, and approached the sliding door in the backyard.

It was locked, but I knew exactly where the spare key was.

I slipped inside without turning on the lights. The refrigerator hummed. The heat was running. No footsteps upstairs. No breathing in the living room.

The whole house was quiet, like nobody lived here.

Erin wasn’t back yet.

I turned on my phone flashlight and swept the beam across the living room.

The magazine stack on the coffee table—usually neat—was disturbed. The top issue lay open, like someone had picked it up and tossed it back down. The throw pillows had been shifted; the one that belonged on the right was now on the left, exposing a thin gap behind it. A framed photo on the mantel leaned slightly, like someone had bumped it with an elbow and couldn’t be bothered to straighten it.

It hadn’t looked like this when I left.

Conclusion came fast: someone had been here.

I moved toward the study, keeping my steps light.

The study door wasn’t fully closed. A sliver of moonlight cut through the gap. I pushed it open with the back of my hand and swept the beam inside. First thing I saw was the desk drawer not pushed all the way in—left open a finger’s width.

I walked to the desk and pulled it out.

It had been searched. Not ransacked—searched. Things had been taken out, checked, and put back. The order of folders had changed. The flap on a sealed envelope showed nail marks. Even the old photocopy of my passport at the bottom had been pulled out and shoved back in, leaving a bent corner.

Someone had been looking for something.

The brooch.

Find the brooch and you confirm my identity—who I am, where I am, what my social ties are…

I shut the drawer and went upstairs.

The bedroom had been touched too: the nightstand drawer opened and closed, the closet left slightly ajar.

I stood in the center of the room with the lights off, the flashlight beam sliding over the walls.

The brooch wasn’t taken by whoever searched the house. That was obvious. First, before they ever came, it was already gone from the box. Second, they came to find it, not steal it. Taking it would only trip my alarms. All they needed was to confirm who the owner was. The brooch wasn’t their target.

I was.

So where was it? There was only one answer left.

I grabbed my phone and called Erin.

First call—straight to voicemail.

No message. I hung up and dialed again. Voicemail.

I held the phone to my ear and stared at the dark window. Third call. It rang long enough that I expected it to cut off again, but this time she finally picked up.

The background was loud—music, laughter, the clean clink of glasses—like a high-end cocktail event.

Erin’s voice carried a bit of alcohol and a practiced casualness. “What?”

No small talk. “Where’s my brooch?”

A second of silence, like she was trying to remember what I meant. Then she laughed—impatient. “That little pin? You really treat it like treasure.”

“Answer me.”

“Aren’t you already moved out?” Her tone sharpened. “Reed, we’re getting divorced. Not everything you call ‘yours’ is yours. Ever heard of marital property?”

My fingers tightened around the phone, but my voice stayed level. “That isn’t marital property.”

“Oh, spare me.” She snorted. “You say it isn’t, and that makes it true? I already gave it away.”

My gaze went cold. “To who?”

“Colin,” she said like it was nothing. “He thought it looked good. He’s wearing a suit tonight, so I told him to use it.”

I heard someone call her name on the other end—Colin’s voice, impatient: “Erin, hurry up. Come meet a few people.”

She answered him, then came back to the phone. “Stop nagging. God, you’re exhausting. It’s a stupid brooch. Are you really going to talk about it all night? Don’t call again, okay?”

“Erin.” I said her name once.

“What now?” she snapped.

I didn’t curse her out. I didn’t threaten her. I just stated the fact. “That thing brings trouble.”

She laughed like I’d told a joke. “Trouble? Who do you think you are? A cheap pin with a few fake diamonds doesn’t ‘bring trouble.’ If Colin didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have bothered digging it out. Stop acting like you matter.”

Then she hung up.

The end-of-call tone beeped once, and the room went quiet again.

I lowered the phone and stood there, the flashlight beam resting on the photo of Erin and me on the wall. In it she was smiling, her arm looped through mine, like everything was solid.

I moved the light away and stopped looking at it.

My boss said someone was coming for me. Right now, that warning got very specific:

They wouldn’t care who was innocent.

They would only care who was wearing the brooch.

I left the house and looked up at the city lights in the distance, calm as a flat sea.

Wherever Colin was going tonight, it was an upper-class event. Places like that are bright, crowded, full of eyes. If the brooch showed up in a room like that, it would be like lighting a cigarette in the dark.

I got back into my car and started it, the hood pointed toward downtown.

I didn’t need a second confirmation. I didn’t need another argument with Erin.

She had already given it away—to a rich kid who liked showing off. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a choice.

And I knew exactly what it meant.

Once that brooch caught the light, the hounds would smell blood.