Page 24 of Stolen for Keeps
The bedside clock read 2 a.m. My fingers ached, and my back was stiff, exhaustion weighing me down.
But getting up was easy when you had a purpose.
I pocketed the loose diamonds and slid back into the car, heading toward Boise, Idaho. A bigger city. Interstate. More pawn shops. Fewer questions. If an alert were issued, law enforcement would likely check Bozeman first, possibly even Missoula or Billings.
Not across the border.
By the time I pulled in, the city was already in full swing. Traffic lights cycled. Sidewalks buzzed with people. Delivery trucks double-parked as workers hauled crates inside. Cafés were busy with the late-morning crowd.
No one was looking for me, I was sure of it. But that didn’t mean I’d let my guard down. There were no law enforcement officers in sight, but detectives didn’t always wear badges.
I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt lower, crossed the street, and stepped inside the pawn shop.
The air smelled like metal, old paper, and dust. Shelveswere stacked with secondhand electronics, power tools, and glass cases full of watches and rings.
A middle-aged man leaned on the counter, flipping through a magazine. He glanced up. “Can I help you with something?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the first set of diamonds, setting them down with deliberate care. “What can you give me for these?”
His brows lifted, but he didn’t hesitate. He picked one up, rolling it between his fingers, then held it to the light.
“Clean,” he murmured. “No certs?”
I shrugged, keeping my voice even. “From a broken engagement. Guy was a liar. Figured I’d rather have cash than memories.”
He smirked. “Loose diamonds, though? Most women sell the whole ring.”
I hitched a shoulder. “He had, well, unconventional ideas. He wanted us to design an entire collection from scratch—earrings, a pendant, a ring—the whole coordinated set.”
“And he just let you keep them?”
I met his gaze head-on. “He knew better than to fight me for them.”
That did the trick. His smirk widened.
“Fair enough.” He set the diamond down, tapping the counter. “Let’s see some ID.”
I kept my expression neutral as I reached for my wallet. I was calm and collected as I slid my Montana driver’s license across the glass. He took it, skimming the plastic with his eyes.
He took too long a glance.
A pause.
My stomach clenched, but I didn’t shift.
He flipped the ID over, studying the back. Then the front again. I could hear my own heartbeat.
He knows.
No. That was paranoia talking.
Casually, I let my gaze wander to a row of pawned guitars lined up along the wall, keeping my breathing normal.
Finally, he gave a small shrug, sliding the ID back to me. “Let’s talk numbers.”
First, he lowballed me.
I corrected him.
