Page 6 of Escape to Egypt

“Something like that,” I texted back, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll tell you more when things settle down. Don’t start the hot glue gun without me.”

“Promise. Be careful, okay?” came her quick response.

“Always,” I replied, hoping I could keep that promise. If only Addie knew how deep this rabbit hole went, she'd probably come over with a suitcase of her own, ready to join me in Egypt. Part of me wanted to tell her everything, but for now, a vague explanation would have to do. I just hoped she wouldn’t worry too much.

With Addie somewhat reassured, I returned to my packing. I tossed in a couple more random items—a mini flashlight because you never know when you might need one, and a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. I considered packing my favorite necklace, a vintage locket I’d found at a flea market, but then thought better of it. If I lost it in the sand, I’d never forgive myself. Besides, the Jewel of Isis might match my sundress better.

My phone buzzed again, interrupting my thoughts. A text from Dean: “Check your email. Your flight leaves in four hours. Red-eye to Cairo. Hope you like airplane food. Keep me posted if you can. Wi-Fi in the pyramids might be spotty. And say hi to my mummy.”

I laughed, typing back, “I’ll say hi to all the mummies for you. Do you want a postcard?”

Dean’s sense of humor might have been nerdy, but it was one of the few things keeping me from a full-on meltdown. At least I had someone in my corner who knew the whole truth.

Four hours. That was enough time to do a little more research before I had to leave for JFK. I flopped down on my bed, pulling my laptop onto my lap. The ancient thing wheezed to life, the screen flickering like it might give up the ghost at any second. I opened the email from Dean and saw all the details of my travel arrangements. Flight confirmation, check. Hotel reservation, check. And then something that caught my eye: Dean had arranged for a guide to meet me in Cairo. A man named Jack Stone.

“Jack Stone?” I read the name out loud. That didn’t sound very Arabic me.

Dean’s note explained that Jack was a U.S. citizen but had traveled the world extensively and was supposed to be the best guide in the Middle East. He’d even personally vouched for him. “Don’t worry, Charlotte, I know your sense of direction. I don’t want you wandering the desert for 40 years. Jack’s the best, and he’s got a ‘colorful’ past. You’ll love him.”

A colorful past? That could mean anything. Dean had a talent for understatement. The last time he’d described someone as having a “colorful past,” it turned out they’d been a roadie for a heavy metal band and had a tattoo of a unicorn riding a Harley. But if Dean trusted Jack, that was good enough for me. At least I wouldn’t be navigating the desert alone. Google Maps would only get me so far, especially in a place where “road” was a loose concept.

I closed out of email and opened my browser to do more research into the stolen artifacts and legend surrounding them. I knew the basics about the Jewel of Isis and the Vase of Hathor, but there was still a lot I didn’t know, and the more I could find out now, the less I’d be grasping at straws later. After several searches of various archival sites, I discovered more information and paused to grab my junk-journal to jot down some notes. The Jewel of Isis was said to grant wisdom and protection, which sounded pretty handy if you were a goddess or, in my case, a New Yorker about to jump into an ancient mystery. But the real intrigue was around the combination of the vase and the amulet.

According to legend, the Vase of Hathor and the amulet together could unlock something called the ‘Path of the Gods,’ leading to buried treasure and ancient knowledge. The vase supposedly pointed the way, while the Jewel of Isis acted as the key. It was like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, and I wondered whether fact had inspired fiction. Thousands of explorers, historians, and archaeologists had studied the artifacts, trying to unlock their secrets. The hieroglyphics and art on the vase depicted images of Hathor, the ancient Egyptian goddess of love, beauty, and motherhood. She was also associated with dance, music, celebration, and, oddly enough, cows. I suppose it made sense once you thought about it.

I scrolled through the information, absorbing the details. Hathor was seen as a mother figure, nurturing and protective, and was sometimes even depicted as a cow, symbolizing fertility and nourishment. She was also the goddess of joy, music, and dance, often portrayed with a sistrum, a musical instrument that looked like a rattle. Her name meant “estate of Horus” or “house of Horus,” linking her to the sky god. People would offer mirrors or cosmetic palettes to her, believing she could bring beauty and love into their lives.

The more I read, the more fascinated I became. This was what I loved about art history—the stories behind the artifacts, the way a simple vase could hold the key to ancient beliefs and traditions. But now, those stories were tangled up with my own, and I had to find a way to untangle them before my life unraveled completely.

I closed the laptop and glanced at the clock. Time to get moving if I didn’t want to miss my flight. I zipped up my suitcase, giving it a firm pat as if to say, “We’re in this together.” I grabbed my phone, charger, passport, and one last thing—my lucky charm, a small stuffed T-Rex that Palmer, the youngest of four siblings I used to care for during my nanny days, had given me, telling it would “protect me.” He’d been having trouble sleeping due to nightmares involving monsters under his bed, so we’d chosen one of his teddy bears and asked it if it wouldn’t mind protecting him while he was sleeping. The furry bear readily offered his services, and hence Palmer wanted to return the favor. I smiled as I slipped the smiling green dinosaur into my luggage. If I was going to face ancient curses and mysteries, I’d need all the luck I could get.

With a final look around my apartment, I switched off the light and headed out the door, my suitcase rolling behind me like a faithful companion. The hallway smelled like old carpet and someone’s dinner—probably the guy in 3B who seemed to survive solely on takeout. I made my way down the stairs, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

When I stepped out onto the street, the chaos of New York City hit me full force. Horns blared, people shouted, and the smell of street food mingled with exhaust fumes and B.O. I flagged down a taxi, waving my arms like a maniac until one finally pulled over. The driver looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and boredom.

“JFK,” I said, climbing into the backseat. He grunted in acknowledgment, and we were off, merging into the madness of New York traffic. As we inched our way through the city, I stared out the window, my mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. The taxi driver was blasting some kind of techno music that made my ears throb, but I didn’t mind. It kept me from overthinking. The last thing I needed was to talk myself out of this. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my situation sink in. I had no idea what I’d find in Egypt, but whatever it was, I hoped it would be enough to prove my innocence and get my life back on track.

We pulled up to the airport, and I paid the driver, hauling my suitcase out of the trunk. The hustle and bustle of JFK hit me like a wave. People were everywhere, dragging luggage, juggling kids, and looking generally stressed. I navigated through the crowds, making my way to the check-in counter. As I handed over my passport, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline. This was it. No turning back now.

Boarding the plane, I found my seat and stuffed my suitcase into the overhead compartment. I settled in, trying to make myself comfortable in the cramped seat. The flight was full, and the air was filled with the sound of people settling in, flight attendants giving instructions, and the faint hum of the engines. I closed my eyes, trying to calm my nerves. A red-eye flight to Cairo. This time tomorrow, I’d be halfway around the world, in a country I’d only read about in history books. Egypt, with its ancient tombs, mysterious artifacts, and untold secrets. And then there was Jack Stone, the guide Dean had hired for me, who was a mystery all his own. What would he be like? I supposed I’d find out soon enough.

The plane lifted off, and fear and excitement gripped me. I glanced out the window at the city lights below, feeling a pang of homesickness already. New York might be a noisy, chaotic mess, but it was my noisy, chaotic mess. I was leaving everything familiar behind, stepping into the unknown.

As the plane leveled out, I pulled out my junk-journal and a pen. Flipping to a blank page, I began scribbling down my thoughts. “Egypt, here I come,” I wrote, underlining the words. I doodled a little pyramid in the corner, adding a sun and some squiggly lines to represent sand. I drew the Jewel of Isis and the Vase of Hathor with question marks above them. I’d probably look back at this page one day and laugh at how naive I’d been, but for now, it was a way to keep my hands busy and my mind from wandering too far into worry.

I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. Sleep didn’t come easily, but eventually, I drifted off, lulled by the hum of the engines and the thoughts of the adventure ahead. Whatever happened in Egypt, I’d face it head-on. I had no choice. I was in this now, and there was no turning back.

Chapter Four

The plane’s wheels touched down with a jolt, and I jerked awake, blinking against the harsh light filtering through the cabin windows. My neck was stiff from trying to sleep sitting up, and my mouth tasted like airplane pretzels. I glanced around groggily as passengers stirred, gathering their belongings. We had arrived in Cairo, and my adventure was officially beginning.

I stepped out of the cool air-conditioned terminal into a wall of heat that hit me like a solid force. The air was thick, fragrant with spices and a hint of something smoky. It was as if Cairo itself was announcing its presence, demanding that I leave my New York sensibilities at the door. I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies doing cartwheels in my stomach. This was real. I was here. And now I had to find Jack Stone, my guide.

I scanned the crowd of drivers and guides holding up signs with names, looking for my own. The terminal was a sea of people: families reuniting, businessmen checking their phones, tourists gawking at the grandeur of it all. My eyes finally landed on a man standing near the exit, holding a sign that said, in messy handwriting, “Charlotte the Art Thief.” My heart sank. This must be Jack.

As I approached, the man lowered the sign, and I got my first real look at Jack Stone. He was tall, with a build that suggested he could throw a car tire if he wanted to. His skin was tanned to a deep bronze, and his hair was a wild mess of dark curls that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in years. He had a beard that teetered between rugged and “I haven’t shaved in a week,” and his eyes were a piercing blue, like two chips of ice in the desert heat. I couldn’t help but notice the smudge of what looked suspiciously like hummus on his shirt.

Great, I thought. My guide is a homeless Indiana Jones.

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