Chapter 2
SOPHIE
Midmorning sun blazed overhead by the time Sophie, Marcus, and Pierre emerged from the museum. The light painted Honolulu in vivid brushstrokes—sparkling off glass towers with emerald mountains rising like ancient guardians behind, and a sky so blue it made Sophie’s eyes water.
Sophie paused on the museum’s coral block steps, their surface warm beneath her feet even through her shoes.
The air carried the mingled scents of plumeria from the museum gardens, diesel exhaust from passing tour buses, and beneath, that underlying salt smell of ocean that permeated everything in Hawaii.
A mynah bird hopped along the museum’s neatly mowed lawn, its yellow beak and eye patches vivid in the morning light.
It pecked at something in the grass—probably remnants from a tourist’s crumbs.
Sophie gazed out at the city she’d called home for years now. Tiled and corrugated roofs were clustered in neighborhoods she knew by heart, their streets shaded by wide monkeypod trees where she’d pushed Sean’s stroller while Momi skipped ahead to parks where the children played.
Somewhere out there, thieves were planning their next strike, calculating angles and escape routes with the same precision she’d once used in her former life as an FBI agent.
And somewhere else—she checked her watch—her children were probably halfway through their snacks, with Armita patiently wiping sticky fingers and negotiating sharing disputes.
Both realities tugged at her; they were the duality of life as a working mother. She’d gotten good at walking that tightrope these past two and a half years; good at compartmentalizing, at being fully present whether she was analyzing crime scenes or bandaging scraped knees.
“The flower bothers me,” Pierre said, joining her on the steps.
Marcus had gone to retrieve his car from the parking lot, leaving them momentarily alone with the morning crowds flowing around them.
His shadow fell across hers, and she caught a whiff of his cologne—something subtle and expensive that he’d worn since their first meeting.
“The plumeria is personal, specific,” Pierre continued, his voice thoughtful.
Behind them, a tour group gathered, their guide’s voice carrying fragments of Hawaiian history on the breeze.
“A plumeria is symbolic to you . . . It’s possible this isn’t just about the artifacts. ”
“I was wondering about that.” Sophie said. Pierre had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, seeing past the obvious. It was what made him such a good investigator, and such a good colleague and friend in more ways than one.
“Someone wants us to pay attention,” he continued, eyes scanning the cityscape as if the answers might be written there. “The question is—to what? The thefts themselves? The specific artifacts? Or . . .” He paused, glancing at her. “To you?”
“Too soon to tell,” Sophie said. Her phone buzzed against her hip. She pulled it out, expecting another update from Bill about the children’s morning routine. Instead, she saw a text notification from Connor’s number on the screen. Her jaw tightened, but she opened the message anyway.
You’re going to want my help with this case. I’m sending someone. - C
“Arrogant son of a—” She bit off the curse as a family with young children passed them on the steps, the parents giving her a disapproving glance. The children, roughly Momi and Sean’s ages, were chattering excitedly about the museum’s exhibits, their voices high and sweet.
“Connor?” Pierre read her expression with the ease of long practice. His own face had hardened slightly—he knew most of their convoluted history and had opinions about it.
“Connor knows about the case. Of course he does.” She gripped the phone tighter with a familiar surge of anger that her on-again, off-again lover could provoke. His organization might be strained, but his surveillance network remained intact, especially when it came to her and her children.
Old habits, old obsessions, constantly updated technology.
“Connor wants to send help.” She shoved the phone back in her pocket with more force than necessary. “As if I need his help. As if he has any right to insert himself into my life whenever he—”
“Sophie.” Pierre’s calm tone cut through her building tirade.
A couple of tourists stared curiously, probably wondering about the conflict brewing on the museum steps.
Pierre moved slightly, shielding her from view with his body.
“Whatever his faults, Connor’s resources have been useful in the past.”
She wanted to argue, to list every time Connor’s “help” had complicated her life, but Pierre was right.
Connor’s connections through the Yām Kh?mk?n had provided crucial intelligence on more than one case.
His people had access to information that official channels couldn’t touch, moved in circles where badges meant nothing.
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she growled.
“And neither do I. But we take gift horses when offered.” Pierre gave one of his Gallic shrugs, an eloquent gesture that somehow conveyed understanding, resignation, and subtle disapproval.
The Frenchman had never made a secret of his reservations about Connor and the Yām Kh?mk?n.
He said he’d seen too much of the damage they could do, understood too well the grey areas they operated in.
But he was a pragmatist, understanding the sometimes-necessary compromise between ideals and reality.
A bus rumbled past, its diesel engine loud enough to pause conversation. Sophie watched it go, noting the advertisement on its side for a luau show—smiling dancers frozen in perpetual welcome, promising tourists an authentic Hawaiian experience.
Everything here in the islands was made up of layers of truth and performance, history and commerce, beauty and practicality.
Marcus’s SUV pulled up to the curb, saving Sophie from having to say more on the topic of accepting Connor’s help.
The vehicle was spotless despite the demands of his job—Marcus took pride in the details, always had. She got into the front, grateful for air-conditioning that immediately battled the morning humidity. Sophie adjusted her leather seat to her long legs and buckled up as Pierre settled in back.
“Iolani Palace next?” Pierre asked, confirming their plans with typical thoroughness.
“Yes,” Marcus confirmed. “You can see where the stolen kāhili staff used to be. Its twin still remains.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” Sophie asked. “Why would they only take one?”
Marcus shrugged a big shoulder. “Why anything, in this case?”
“I want to see their security setup, compare it to what we found at Bishop.”
As Marcus pulled into traffic, Pierre touched Sophie’s shoulder.
“About Connor’s offer—”
“Can we not discuss him anymore?” Sophie interrupted, then softened her tone. “Sorry. I need to focus on the case and not waste attention on Connor’s attempts to maintain relevance in my life.”
“Marcella told me you two broke up,” Marcus observed. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I’m not,” Sophie said, and folded her arms across her chest.
She caught the glance Pierre exchanged with Marcus in the rearview mirror. They were worried about her, these two men who’d become unexpected supports in her complicated life.
Noted.
Nonetheless, she hadn’t asked for it and she was handling things fine on her own. The CEO’s desk at Security Solutions and her role as a single mother weren’t easy to balance but she had everything under control.
Sort of.
Sophie turned her head deliberately to watch the scenery outside.
Behind them, the Bishop Museum stood solid and dignified, guardian of treasures and secrets alike. Its coral block walls seemed to glow in the morning light, and Sophie found herself thinking about permanence and change, about things that endured and others that crumbled.
The museum had stood for over a century, protecting Hawaii’s heritage through kingdom and territory and statehood, through wars and economic booms and devastating storms. It would outlast them all—the thieves, the investigators, probably even the memory of this strange case.
But for now, it was her responsibility to protect the treasures it held. Her skills, her determination, her refusal to let the past dictate the future—these were her tools.
The men filled the silence with discussion of a recent soccer match—football, as Pierre insisted on calling it.
Sophie half-listened to their debate about offensive strategies and referee calls until her phone buzzed again.
This time it was a photo from Armita—Momi and Sean at the kitchen table, faces smeared with what looked like mango, grinning at the camera.
The simple domesticity of it made her chest tighten with fierce love.
She would solve this case on her own terms, with her own team.
Connor could keep his help—and his distance.
That’s what he’d chosen when he’d walked away, when he’d decided that power mattered more than the tentative future they’d been building.
He didn’t get to waltz back in now, playing puppet master from that jungle throne where he’d taken up residence.
Even so, Sophie found herself rubbing the spot on her inner arm where Connor had implanted a tracking chip years ago.
The scar was barely visible now, just a tiny line that could have been anything.
That chip had saved her life once—though not Jake’s.
It had been too late for Jake by the time Connor found them in that overflowing lava tube . . .
The technology was probably obsolete now, but she’d never had the chip removed.
Some reminders were worth keeping, if only to remember the cost of them.
Marcus navigated through downtown traffic with the ease of long practice, weaving between delivery trucks and tourist rental cars.
The city flowed around them—businesspeople heading to late morning meetings, tourists clutching maps and phones, locals moving with the unhurried purpose of people who understood that in Hawaii, everything happened on island time.
“The pattern still bothers me,” Sophie said suddenly, needing to voice the thoughts spinning in her head. “Three thefts, three different types of institutions, but all were important Hawaiian cultural artifacts.”
“Private collector?” Marcus suggested, signaling to change lanes. “We’ve seen it before. Rich person decides they want to own a piece of history.”
“Maybe,” Sophie said. “But the technical sophistication, the plumerias, the level of planning . . . seems like something more than just acquisition.”
“You think there’s an endgame we’re not seeing,” Pierre said.
“Yes. Maybe someone’s sending a message,” Sophie said slowly. “I just don’t know what it is yet.”