Chapter 2 - The Silver Locket
“Don’t move.”
I didn’t shout it. I didn’t have the breath. I just threw my body weight forward, grabbing the heavy, silver ice bucket from the center of the table and hurling it directly at the man standing behind Nolan.
It wasn't a graceful throw, but it was heavy.
It hit the guard’s shoulder right as his hand cleared his jacket, throwing his aim off.
The silenced gunshot shattered the floor-to-ceiling window instead of Nolan’s skull.
Instantly, the room erupted.
Nolan didn’t flinch, didn't scream. He moved with a terrifying, liquid speed, diving low beneath the table, pulling me down with him by the collar of my uniform.
Above us, the dining room turned into a war zone. Glass rained down like diamond dust. The other guards drew their weapons, shouting over each other, unsure who had fired first.
“Stay down,” Nolan ordered, his voice barely a whisper against the chaos.
I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook so violently I couldn’t flatten them against the carpet.
Two more shots rang out. A heavy thud followed. Then, dead silence.
“Clear,” someone shouted.
Nolan slowly stood, keeping one hand firmly on my shoulder, pulling me up with him.
The man who had tried to kill him—the guard who had poured the whiskey—lay on the floor, bleeding out from a shoulder wound, pinned by two other men.
Nolan’s attorney was trembling in the corner. His assistant had her hands over her ears.
Nolan walked over to the bleeding man. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely hollowed out, which was somehow much worse.
“Who bought you, Marcus?” Nolan asked softly.
The guard just spat blood onto the pristine carpet.
Nolan knelt down and reached into Marcus’s jacket. He didn't pull out the gun. He pulled out a small, tarnished silver locket that had caught on the fabric when Marcus drew his weapon.
Nolan popped the latch.
I was standing close enough to see the photograph inside. It was a little girl, maybe six years old, with dark curls, standing in front of a very distinct, arched brick doorway.
Nolan stared at the photo. His face went entirely pale.
“Where did you get this?” Nolan’s voice cracked.
Marcus smiled, a bloody, cruel thing. “They already have her, Pierce. Ethan Walker just signed her death warrant by walking out.”
Nolan stood up, his eyes locking onto mine.
“You,” he pointed at me. “What’s your name?”
“Claire,” I whispered.
“Claire. You said you study architectural conservation.” He shoved the locket into my hands. “Look at the brickwork behind the girl. Tell me where she is.”
I stared at the tiny photograph. The masonry was unique—Flemish bond, alternating red and blackened headers, with a very specific mortar weeping style.
“This is mid-19th century,” I said, my mind racing, latching onto the academic puzzle to ignore the dead bodies. “Boston. It’s an old textile mill. Look at the arched lintel. There’s only one remaining mill in the North Shore with that specific black-header brick pattern.”
“Where?” Nolan demanded.
“The old Pierce-Sterling mill. In Salem.”
Nolan’s breath hitched. That was his family's abandoned property.
He turned to his remaining men. “We move. Now.”
Then he looked at me. “You’re coming with us. If you stay here, you’re dead.”
I shook my head backing away. “No. I have to get home to my brother. Leo is—”
Nolan grabbed my arm, not hard, but with absolute finality. “Claire. If they bought my inside man, they know who you are by now. They know you translated. Call your brother. Tell him to pack a bag.”
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
I pulled it out. It was a text from an unknown number.
May you like
It was a picture of my apartment door.
And underneath it, a message: Ask the waitress what else she heard.
