Chapter Eight
Alara
I was so distracted by the book that I nearly waltzed my stupid ass right through an active crime scene.
It was only as I felt the plastic strip of police tape against my arms that I stopped walking, looked up, and saw the cops gathered around an apartment building about a block away from the pawnshop.
I stuck the bookmark in between the pages, then glanced around at the crowd.
“What’s this?” I asked the first person who made eye contact.
“Murder,” she said, whispering it like if she said it too loudly, it might come for her too.
“Gang stuff?”
“No, it was a woman.”
“She’s so nice. Was,” another woman said, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if fighting off a chill while the morning sun was kind of baking the streets.
“You knew her?”
“I mean, not knew her. But she was my neighbor across the hall. We talked sometimes. She was so young.”
I looked toward the building, figuring it was most likely some sort of domestic thing. Despite what it looked like on shows or even the news sometimes, people generally aren’t out getting murdered all willy-nilly in the city. There’s usually a personal or criminal element to it.
“Shame,” I said before making my way around the police tape and continuing my way up the block and around to head toward my apartment. It was only five in the evening, but Tuesday was historically the slowest day at the shop, so I gave myself half a day off.
“Hey, bud,” I greeted Tuna as I made my way inside.
He didn’t even lift his head to look at me.
“Nice to see you too,” I said, tossing the book on the kitchen counter.
My apartment was actually pretty roomy for the city. Which it owed me with how inconvenient it was to access.
And I’d spent a lot of time and pretty much any extra money I came across to fix it up.
Growing up, we hadn’t had much by way of money. There was certainly no money for painting walls or buying cute throw pillows. I didn’t realize windows could have more on them than cracked plastic blinds until I was almost a teenager.
So I’d been very intentional about decorating my first very own space.
When I’d moved in, the walls had been a traffic smoker’s teeth yellow, the windows had been so covered in grime that the sun could barely even peek in, and the kitchen had been straight out of the seventies.
In all the wrong ways, with dark wood cabinets that made the whole space dim, orange backsplashes, yellow striped wallpaper, and orange and yellow linoleum floors that were warped and peeling up in enough places that it had been a total trip hazard.
The vibe I went with for the apartment was cozy, earthy, and repurposed/vintage.
Working in a pawnshop made me hyperaware that there was simply no need to go out and buy new junk. The world was already chock-full of enough crap to decorate everyone’s homes from now until the end of time.
So the only new things in my apartment were my couch and bed. Because second-hand material that couldn’t be put through a washing machine gave me the heebie-jeebies. No bed bugs in my home, thank you very much.
Also, it was hard to find a couch like this one. It was thick, wide, and covered in gorgeous dark green velvet.
All the mismatched, colorful throw pillows and the collection of blankets were thrifted, though.
So was the whole gallery wall of art behind it, the record player, the cabinet it sat on, and all the records beneath it.
The TV came secondhand from one of the Costa guys who upgraded to a bigger screen.
It had an annoying pixel burnt out in one corner, but I hardly ever sat down to watch TV.
I just left it on for Tuna on the days when he didn’t want to come to work with me, or insisted I bring him home early.
Which was how I caught the news as I walked around flicking off the big lights and turning on my abundance of warm golden table lamps and lighting a few candles.
It was a habit of mine—slowing down, creating ambiance, savoring the night. It made me feel like a main character in some ‘90s romcom.
“The victim has been identified as twenty-four-year-old Robin Moody,” the newscaster said, making my gaze flick to the screen where B-roll was playing of the activity outside the apartment building I’d stopped at earlier. But that wasn’t what had me stiffening.
Oh, no.
That was the picture of a young, pretty, blonde-haired woman with one hazel eye and one light brown one.
“You can comment on them. Everyone does.” That was what she said to me when she’d been standing on the other side of the counter, her sleeves pulled down over her hands in what looked to me like a defensive and vulnerable gesture.
Robin had been in my shop a little over a week ago. Shifting her feet, casting glances toward the street.
At the time, I’d figured she was maybe there to hock something that belonged to her boyfriend or roommate or something.
“I, uh, I heard that you can sometimes, um, hold onto things.”
“Sometimes,” I agreed. I was careful about when I did that and for whom. I couldn’t run a business if almost everything inside of it was full of stuff I’d agreed not to sell. “It depends on the situation and the item.”
There was no way I could afford another couple grand like I did with Dotty and her engagement ring.
“It’s just this,” she said, reaching into her giant tote bag and placing a wooden box on the counter.
It wasn’t anything to write home about. Sure, it actually appeared to be solid wood. And, yeah, there were some well-done carvings in it. But it was a dime-a-dozen kind of box. Not likely to sell even if I priced it to.
I popped open the lid, and a little ballerina started to dance as an awful, tinny sound escaped the box. Like whatever mechanism there was that made it was rusted.
Cute.
But worth even less.
People were always looking for things to stick their crap in: jars, containers, decorative boxes.
But a box with a little novelty ballerina taking up half the space inside? Might as well just toss it in the discount bin.
“You want me to hold onto this for you? Why?”
“It has a lot of value,” Robin said. Then, adding quickly, “You know, sentimental value.”
“Okay. Well, I can’t give you more than, like, forty for it. It wouldn’t even be worth that if you don’t come back for it.”
“I’ll be back for it in, like, two weeks. I just… I just want to make sure nothing happens to it.”
“Okay. Well, I can do that. But can you fill this out for me?” I asked, passing her a document I’d drafted out years ago. It collected some basic information so I could contact them before I put the item on the shelves. Sometimes, if they were nice or upset enough, I would give them an extension.
“Oh, sure. And you won’t put it on the shelves, right?” she asked, slamming the box’s lid to silence the grating music, then reaching for her pen.
“No. I keep this kind of thing behind the counter or in the back storage room. For the time we agree on. After that, all bets are off, though.”
“Got it. That won’t, uh—” She trailed off, jumping as the shadow of someone fell over the countertop. It was just a man pausing to look at the display in the window before walking away. But everything about Robin had tightened. I could practically see her pulse fluttering in her throat.
She tried to blow it off, running a hand through her hair, rolling her shoulders. But I knew what I’d seen. Again, though, I chalked it up to an issue with a boyfriend or something like that. Maybe even a street harasser.
“That won’t be a problem,” she said, rushing through the paperwork, passing it to me, then pushing the box closer to me. “Please, just keep it safe for me.”
With that, she tried to go to the door.
“Wait,” I called, making her jump. “Your money,” I said, getting the forty bucks out and handing it to her.
“Oh, right. Of course.”
She took it and shoved it down into her purse.
And it was as she was walking out the door that something nagged at me. It took a second to place it.
But it had been right there in front of me.
Her hand with her expensive gel manicure. The rings on her long fingers. The bracelet. The designer label on her bag. The fact that her pants were those pricey leggings all the Pilates girls wore.
Everything about her said she had money.
And more expensive things to hock than a silly little music box.
At the time, though, I shrugged it off. People could be strange. And maybe she needed quick cash to get a fix. Addiction could hit anyone, even girls with nice manicures and expensive running shoes.
I tried not to judge.
So I just did what I’d agreed to.
I tucked the box away.
I kept it safe.
Then I pretty much forgot about it. Because with only forty bucks on the line, it wasn’t something I felt the need to think about.
I probably wouldn’t have given it another thought until I did something like inventory and came across it.
Until Robin Moody’s pretty face flashed on my television. Because she was dead. Murdered.
My first thought was along the lines of, Well, I guess she’s never coming back for the box.
It took a minute for the other thoughts to surface.
For the pieces to start to fall together.
A nervous woman with a weird request.
A box in my care for safekeeping.
Two sketchy men in my store, looking for something.
A messed-up camera.
An open gate.
A broken lock.
What the hell was in that box?
That was worth killing a woman over?
That was worth risking the wrath of the Costa Family to look for when everyone knew most of the establishments on the street were under their protection?
I rushed around my apartment, blowing out candles, then grabbing my purse, shoving a kitchen knife inside of it, and making my way to the door.
Only for Tuna to follow me.
“Really? Now?” But I was already reaching for the leash.
He was annoyingly leisurely about sniffing around for a spot to do his business. Then he insisted on stopping by every tree to lift his leg, even when he ran out of pee to mark with.
It was like he sensed my urgency and was doing everything in his power to slow me down.
My mind was racing as I moved past the apartment building, the police tape down, the police presence gone for the day.
What was in the box? Was there a secret compartment with cash or jewels inside? Stolen goods, maybe?
Whatever it was, it was mine now.
Robin wasn’t going to be coming back for it.
Those guys, though?
Who knew.
All the more reason to hurry up, get in there, find the box and what was hidden inside, then figure out what I was going to do about it.
“Seriously?” I grumbled when Tuna stopped to sniff a piece of paper stuck to the sidewalk.
Impatient, I was leaning down to scoop him up when he stiffened, then lurched away from me.
My hold on the leash was loose at best, since I didn’t have to worry about Tuna being aggressive. So when he ran, the leash slipped right out of my hold.
“No!” I shrieked.
Sure, he was moody and demanding, and he barely tolerated me. But he was my little dude. I loved him.
“Tuna!” I yelled, making a few passersby shoot me a weird look before carrying on.
I’d just straightened when I noticed Tuna had stopped running. Because he was busy jumping up on a pair of skinny, jean-clad legs.
My gaze tracked upward.
And there he was.
The only person in the world my dog loved.
Liam.
I hated how my gaze shot around, looking for someone who will not be named. And not only because he’d been starring in all my sweaty, needy dreams, despite my decision to dislike him until the end of time.
But he wasn’t there.
Neither was Charlotte.
Liam was in my neighborhood alone.
“Liam, what the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Hey, Alara,” he greeted me as he reached down to scoop up the demanding Tuna Roll.
“Are you here looking for me?”
“Uh, no.”
His gaze moved past me, then quickly away. His feet shifted. His posture was tight enough to snap.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
To that, his lips twitched. “I was taking a walk.”
“Sure you were. Now, the question is, are you here to buy drugs? Meet a girl? Steal shit?”
“I have my own money.” He puffed up at that. “And I don’t have a girl.”
“Drugs then. Great.”
“It’s not drugs.”
“What is it then?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting shifty as fuck, so it’s something.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
“Come on, dude. Don’t make me be a narc.”
“You gotta do what you gotta do.”
He walked past me, dropping Tuna into my arms, then continued down the street while my dog cried for the love of his life.
I reached for my phone, hating that the kid was making me do the unthinkable.
Reach out to Christopher freaking Costa.
The phone rang twice before he answered.
“Alara?” Was that pleasure in his voice? Or my own wishful thinking? “Is everything okay?”
“Your pain-in-the-ass nephew is making me be a rat, and I hate him for it.”
“What? Liam?”
“Yeah. Liam is on my street and being sketchy as hell. He won’t tell me what he’s up to, so I thought you might want to know.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I hung up.
On him.
On the flutter in my chest at his voice.
On the flip-flop sensation in my stomach at the prospect of seeing him again.
But I didn’t have to see him.
I could just lock my shop and disappear into the back room.
That is until there was a knock on the door.
And there was Christopher.
Looking hotter than he had any right to look in a pair of basketball pants and a tee.
And next to him, a very eager-looking Charlotte.
“Do you mind watching her for a few?” he asked when I unlocked the door. “I have a feeling whatever Liam is up to, I don’t want Charlotte involved.”
“I’m old enough to stay home alone,” Charlotte said. But nothing about her demeanor suggested she would have liked that.
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, we need to talk about that plot twist at the end of book one.”
Charlotte moved inside, and over the top of her head, Christopher caught my eye.
Thank you, he mouthed.
I hated how my heart fluttered a little at that.
I gave him a nod.
The box was going to have to wait.