2 SAM
“THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!”
I shouted at the top of my lungs as I pulled the uninvited visitor’s dirty clothes out of the bathroom and tossed them in the corner of the laundry area along with mine.
After spending hours walking through the desert, the last thing I wanted was to worry about what to wear, but here I was picking out something halfway decent to wear with an armed stranger in the house.
I stared at the suitcase in the corner of the room.
“He’s definitely got sensors on that thing.”
I lay down on the bed and tried to adjust the pillow.
“He barely got here and he’s already messed up my room’s whole vibe,” I grumbled, pulling the pillow from the other side and noticing he’d moved it. I jumped when a knife appeared between the sheets. “Are there more of these lying around?!”
“I must be losing my mind for not running away or peeing my pants when he pointed that gun at me,” I mused, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not like I felt safe... but I was so tired.”
It had been a long and frustrating day off from the antique shop. Another day searching another stretch of desert with nothing to show for it. I wasn’t even close to making a new discovery. Another birthday stuck in Egypt.
I closed my eyes and a figure formed behind my eyelids.
“Ammit,” I whispered. I turned onto my side and tried to sleep. But after half an hour of forcing my eyes to stay closed, I finally gave in to that nagging spark of restlessness.
I turned the light back on and searched my bookshelf for the title that kept flashing through my mind like a neon sign.
This time I skipped past my mother’s name on the cover and her dedication. I went straight to the chapter on deities. I remembered seeing something about this in my mother’s notes.
Ammit was an entity that devoured the hearts of the dead. For the Egyptians, it represented their greatest fears—the personification of darkness in divine justice. The punishment of the impure. Of sinners.
I grabbed my laptop from my bag and dove into a deep dive on this Ammit that White Head had been studying so obsessively.
“I can’t believe I’m obsessed with this,” I muttered, staring at myself in the mirror after spending hours scrolling through American news sites and stories about the legend of some heart-devouring crocodile creature in South American cultures.
I grabbed a glass of water and went back to the computer, which was loading a video about Ammit’s last appearance. When I hit play on the news report, the photo caught my attention. It was definitely him—younger, but unmistakably White Head.
Detective Connor O’Brien fought bravely to save the life of Madeleine, daughter of the California gubernatorial candidate, but was seriously injured by Ammit. His condition is critical, and doctors are uncertain whether he will survive.
“Connor O’Brien,” I repeated the name from the news report.
I stared again at his things in the corner of the room and spotted the edge of the brown paper folder that had been spread across the bed earlier.
“Fuck it.” I went to the suitcase and grabbed the material, spreading it across the bedroom floor so I could see everything. I sat there, consumed by curiosity.
It was devastating to see how many people had died. Ammit attacked for years—a massive killing spree lasting three days, then nothing. He’d disappear completely, as if he’d never existed. No one saw him without a mask, and everyone who tried became a statistic. Except one.
“No one can hide for that long,” I said to myself, poring over the crime scene photos with morbid fascination.
“I think so too.” A male voice came from behind me, and I jumped up, clutching the knife I’d found under the pillow. “Whoa, whoa... easy...”
Connor held up his palms in surrender. The street was silent at this hour, and I could hear his breathing.
“Sorry. You startled me.” I dropped the knife on the bed and he retrieved it.
“You shouldn’t be reading this,” he said, gathering the papers I’d spread out.
“It’s okay, I’m used to—”
“I meant you shouldn’t have gone through my things,” he cut in dryly.
“Oh... I thought I could help...”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, but—”
“Then I doubt you can help me,” he said, tossing the folder onto the suitcase and lying down on my side of the bed. “Especially since I didn’t ask for help.”
“Are you always this rude to people who offer help without asking for anything in return?” I yanked the pillow out from under his head and he growled in irritation.
“Are you always this nosy?” he shot back, crossing his arms under his head. “Besides, everyone always wants something in return.”
“There are good people.”
“Where?” he asked, staring at me. “In the perfect world of your romance novels?”
“What makes you think I read romance novels?”
“Don’t you?”
I huffed and lay down on the bed.
“You're the biggest asshole I've met today. And believe me, I walked all over Cairo—they're everywhere.”
“Your life would be easier if you'd taken my money and gone to a hotel.” He yanked my pillow back, shoved the gun underneath, and closed his eyes.
“I don't want your stinking dollars.” I rolled over. “Why didn't you go to a hotel yourself?”
“I was trying to avoid nosy people… but looks like I hit the jackpot.”
“If you wanted to live in isolation, you should consider an igloo in the middle of Antarctica. You must be used to the cold and loneliness, with that charming personality of yours.” I shot back, but he ignored me completely, which only fueled my irritation and the insomnia that would consume me for hours as I lay there replaying all the comebacks I wished I'd said until I finally passed out.
Connor O'Brien was becoming everything I didn't need for my birthday.
When I opened my eyes again, White Head wasn't in the apartment, and for a second I let out a sigh of relief, feeling like it had all been just a nightmare and I had everything under control again.
I stretched, a little sore from not having moved all night. As I turned toward the window, I spotted his suitcase in the corner and grumbled before deciding to get up.
I walked to the kitchen to make coffee and found the thermos already full.
“At least there's that.”
I looked for my cup in the cabinet and couldn't find it. I spotted the porcelain handle in the trash and rushed to retrieve it just as the door opened. “I can't believe you threw my cup away!”
“It's broken. I was doing you a favor,” Connor replied, setting some bags on the floor. “That's not even a cup.”
“First, it's not broken,” I complained, rinsing it under the faucet. “Second, it's a cup in this house.”
“There's a huge piece missing from the rim. Plus several cracks.” He took off his sunglasses and cap, revealing the silver strands of his hair. “Looks pretty broken to me.”
“It's the aesthetic of the piece—it tells a story.”
“Yeah, the epic of its demise.” He rummaged through the bags and pulled out a set of modern glass cups.
“Of course, generic glass cups with no personality whatsoever,” I huffed. “That cup you threw in the trash was hand-molded before you were even born, and considering how old you are, that's saying something.”
“If I'd known you were going to talk so much and so loudly, I would've left that damn broken jar you use as a cup right where I found it.”
“That's what normal people would do.”
“And what do you know about normal? You use a damn jar as a cup!”
“It makes the coffee taste amazing!” I huffed as he walked past me.
Connor headed to the bathroom while I poured myself a cup. Watching the dark, viscous liquid fill my rescued cup, I wondered if he'd used my entire month's supply of coffee to make two cups—or maybe a little more.
“My God, this is horrible,” I shouted after tasting it.
Connor stuck his head out of the bathroom and watched me pour the whole thing down the drain. I was about to grab the thermos and dump the rest when he lunged out, grabbing my hand.
“Don't you dare—” he growled.
“Or what?”
“You won't like me when I'm angry.”
“I haven't exactly been getting the pleasant version since we met.”
“Believe me, it can get worse.” He looked into my eyes, and only then did I notice he had beautiful brown eyes. “Much worse.”
“Let me go.” I twisted my wrist and he released me. “You're forbidden from touching my coffee ever again.”
“You won't need to worry about me when you get back in twenty-nine days.”
“If you think I'm going to give up my apartment without a fight…”
“That's exactly what I think you'll do.”
“You don't know me.”
No, you really don't know me! I'm willing to see this through to the end. And my first step is going after Omar—that crazy old man who caused this whole mess.