Page 99 of Lost to Thievery
The agents started moving around the room, making sure it was clear.
“Claudia, it’s empty. Did you see anyone leave?”
“No. All is quiet up here,” came her reply.
“Becket,” Marshall called where he and Emerie were standing before the chairs. “Come see this.”
I swallowed hard, adrenaline still tingling in my fingers. What the hell was Grayson up to?
When we reached the chairs, Owen balled his fists against his eyes, his chest heaving with rage. He kicked out at one of the empty chairs and it skittered loudly across the floor. “Motherfucker!” he screamed, walking away.
My stomach dropped as I saw it.
On the front row seats werereservedplaques, each with our names on them. One for Emerie, Marshall, Syntax, Owen and me.
On each of the seats were navy boxes with beautifully wrapped golden bows. On top of the boxes laid bouquets of Snapdragons.
I counted the rest of the chairs. Exactly the number of agents with us.
We had been set up.
Syntax stopped beside me. “Isn’t that the flowers fr—”
“From the fucking Gala, yes,” Owen blurted, looking like he was about to snap someone’s neck. “The auction was at the fucking Gala!”
And we had driven right past it.
I sank into one of the chairs in the second row, my legs unable to hold me anymore. “Snapdragons are flowers of deceit,” I murmured, my limbs feeling unbearably heavy.
How had I missed it? It was such a clear fucking taunt, and I had missed it.
“Get us some gloves,” Emerie ordered one of the agents. She eyed the presents. “No. Make it a bomb squad.”
We stood outside in devastating silence as Claudia’s bomb squad cleared the presents and the room.
When we stood in front of the presents again, we still couldn’t find our voices.
“Why did we not think of the Gala?” Emerie was the first to speak as we pulled on our gloves, wearily eyeing the boxes. “It was perfect. No one batted an eye at all the private jets landing in one airport. Or all the Rolex-wearing assholes gathering in one city.”
Someone had turned off the vinyl player, making the room eerily quiet. Somewhere, water was dripping.
“No one thought they had the balls to hold the auction right down the street from us.” Syntax pressed her lips into fine lines, carefully lifting the lid off her present.
She froze, staring at it.
“What is it?” I asked, feeling the anxiety rolling off her in palpable waves. I peered into the box. It was a doll with a golden dress and only one glass slipper. The doll was old and worn, the hair tangled and the dress frayed at the seam.
“It’s my favourite doll. The one I lost. I… how…” She looked up at me, utter shock trapped in her wide eyes. “I lost it when I was ten. I don’t understand. How did…” She swallowed hard and took a step back, shaking her head wildly.
I clasped my hand around hers. “Don’t let them do that, Syntax. Don’t let them get in your head. They want you scared. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
“Maybe it’s not even the same doll,” Marshall offered.
“I wrote my name on her back,” Syntax murmured, but not daring to look herself.
I lifted the doll and pulled the dress up. “Cynthia,” I read aloud.
Syntax shuddered and clamped her eyes shut.
