Page 67 of The Kat Bunglar

He gave her a wink, still holding the phone to his ear. “I’ll give them a heads-up, let them know someone might be coming in hot. And uh... if you happen to find similar pieces like that in the future, be sure to notify me first, eh? I know a gal who can fence some stuff for ya.”

She forced a smile, even though her focus was already elsewhere. “Thanks, Hal. And about that coffee date—let’s just keep it business for now, yeah?”

Hal chuckled, clearly entertained. “Sure, sure. Business only.” He was still grinning as she headed for the door.

As she stepped out of the pawnshop, the sunlight hit her like confirmation. She had pulled it off!

She hadn’t bungled it—she’d been patient, waiting out Christian, Joseph, and even Laila. Not only had she succeeded, but she had also made everyone believe she was in the same boat as them—scared, anxious, and uncertain about the future.

Chuckling to herself, she patted her backpack, where the cool fifty thousand was safely tucked away. She really was fantastic at everything she did.

She pulled up the Uber app on her phone, quickly typing in her destination: Culver City!

Her thumb hovered over the “confirm ride” button, but before she tapped it, a text from Laila popped up. A part of her wanted to check it, to see if there was anything urgent she should know before she went. But another part of her, the part that wanted to make Laila proud, dismissed it. Laila would understand when she surprised her with her mother’s ring.

She tapped the “confirm ride” button and took a deep breath.

Everything was finally falling into place.

August 1st

Chicago

Laila Malik

Laila sighed in frustration, her eyes lingering on the phone screen, still no response from Khatira. She knew young people were terrible at communication. But the girl had robbed her. Surely, she deserved a little courtesy?

Esme popped her head in, disrupting her thoughts. “Hey, boss. How’s it going?”

Laila forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Not your boss. Just a very hungry colleague ready for lunch.”

Esme walked in and set a folder down on Laila’s desk. “I was about to file this, but then I remembered you were working on the case. Thought you might want to see it.”

Laila’s eyes flicked to the file labeled “Gabriel Santos,” and her stomach dropped. Her appetite vanished, replaced by a heavy, familiar ache. “Oh, right. We... we haven’t followed up on this yet, have we?”

Esme, sensing the gravity of the moment, hesitated. “He withdrew the application.”

Laila’s throat tightened, and for a moment, the words didn’t seem to reach her. She stared at the folder, as if the answer might change if she looked at it long enough. “Ah,” she exhaled slowly, the word barely audible.

Her fingers trembled, hovering over the file, unwilling to turn the page.

“It appears as if he’ll be staying in Mexico permanently.” Esme’s voice was soft, Laila barely heard it.

“Morelia,” Laila whispered, almost to herself.

“Pardon?” Esme asked with an arched brow, but Laila didn’t hear her. Her gaze was locked on the window, her mind elsewhere.

Laila muttered distractedly, “It’s from an old poem. ‘If you ever want to find me, follow the trail of butterfly wings.’” Her voice wavered, and she realized she was holding back a sob. She sucked in a breath, trying to steady herself, but her heart wasn’t listening.

Why was she so upset? They had said their goodbyes weeks ago. But deep down, she acknowledged, a part of her still believed he’d be back. And they’d run into each other on the elevator all over again, picking up where they’d left off. In her heart of hearts, she hadn’t admitted to herself that it was truly over.

The worst part was that they’d never even begun.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she wiped it away quickly. Forcing a smile, she looked at Esme, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry. I’m being silly. I’m glad he’s finally reunited with his family.”

Esme watched her for a beat, clearly not convinced. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Laila nodded quickly, her smile widening in an attempt to push the sadness back down. “Yeah. Let’s get that chef’s salad. I’m starving.”

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