Page 19 of Shattered Jewel

“Hide!” Sasha hisses, and we shut Maverick’s door and scramble for his closet, throwing ourselves inside just as the bedroom’s door handle turns with an ominous click. The closet is cramped, the musky scent of leather and moth-bitten clothing wrapping around us.

Sasha’s hand finds mine in the dark, squeezing tight. “It’s just your mom, I’m sure. We have nothing to worry about.”

Through the narrow slits of the closet’s panels, a black-clad figure, disguised from head-to-toe, tears through Maverick’s things without any regard or respect.

No.

I don’t realize I’ve stepped forward until Sasha jerks me back.

His silhouette is jittery, movements erratic, like a marionette being yanked by unseen strings. I can tell it’s a man from the broad set of shoulders, the tapered waist and thick thighs. He wears gloves and a ski mask, the eyeholes flashing the whites of his eyes as he turns and walks through the slit of moonlight through the window.

I don’t recognize him.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters to himself, fingers combing through Maverick’s desk drawers with frantic urgency. Papers rustle, and objects clatter.

He’s searching for something—desperate, obsessed.

“Elara...” Sasha breathes, so quiet it’s almost part of the stuffy closet.

“Shh.” I press my finger to my lips even though I know Sasha can’t see it. My heart thuds against my ribs, so loud I’m sure it’s threatening to give us away.

The man upends a vintage wooden box Maverick stuffed his knickknacks in, its contents spilling across the floor—a cascade of memories, trinkets, and pictures frozen in time. He moves to Maverick’s bookshelf next, pulling out his beloved books one by one, flipping through pages, then tossing them aside without care.

The sight snares my breath and tears at my heart; these are sacred leftovers of my brother’s life, treated as nothing more than obstacles in a frenzied quest.

“Please,” he whispers to no one, or perhaps to Maverick himself. “Where is it?”

His voice is too low. I can’t link it to anyone I know.

The air in the closet is getting thicker, heavier. I dare not blink, dare not breathe too loud. Beside me, Sasha’s grip is a lifeline.

The man pauses, his head cocked, listening for something we can’t hear. For a moment, I think he’s sensed us. It’s only a matter of time before he decides to search the closet. I wish I’d picked up a weapon on my sprint here. Even Maverick’s NYC snow globe from 2004 currently rolling across the floor would do.

My pulse hammers in my ears, but he resumes his search, tearing through Maverick’s belongings with renewed fervor.

What is he looking for? Will he notice the wallpaper, the message hidden in plain sight?

“Elara,” Sasha whispers again, a question laced in her tone. What the fuck do we do?

Keep still, I mouth soundlessly, my gaze never leaving the sliver of space that allows me to witness this man’s unraveling.

Eventually, the frenzy subsides, his shoulders slump, and he stands at the center of the mess he’s created. A low, pained sigh escapes him, and I feel it—a sharp twist in my chest.

This is pain, raw and unfiltered.

He turns slowly to the closet.

“Elara...” Sasha says once more, her voice a stretched thread close to snapping.

The truth is, other than scream and scratch our way through him once we’re revealed, I don’t know what we can do. I clench my phone in my hand, ready to use it as a mallet against his head.

A distant thump, like something heavy hitting the floor, sounds out in the hallway. We share a concerned glance at the same time the man whips his head toward Maverick’s door, his leatherclad hands fisting.

Moving with silent precision, the man slinks out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Sasha jerks forward, but I stop her by clamping my hand around her arm.

I mime, Wait.

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