Chapter Two

I had barely finished my thought when the museum security team burst into the dimly lit hall, their shoes echoing off the white marble like a judge's gavel. Stern expressions were etched on their faces, and their questioning gazes raked over me as if certain I had something to hide. I swallowed hard, feeling like an artifact being examined for a fake.

"Charlotte Bray?" asked a stocky man in a dark-blue uniform with a mustache that seemed to bristle with authority.

"Y-Yes, that's me," I stammered, clutching the edge of a podium for support.

"I’m Joe Tamburello, head of security here. Please step away from the equipment, ma'am,” he said, catching my elbow in his firm grip. “This way."

He and two other officers herded me out of the exhibit hall, and I could feel my career crumbling faster than ancient ruins. My heart raced; it was one thing to talk about dramatic heists in a lecture, quite another to be swept up in one.

Before I could process the surreal turn of events, the blue and red strobes of police lights painted the museum walls. Local authorities swarmed the lobby, their radios crackling with a sense of urgency that did nothing to ease my anxiety.

A stern-faced woman in uniform approached me, her badge glinting under the foyer chandelier. "Ms. Bray, we need you to collect your personal items from your office. Now."

"Am I being arrested?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could rein them in.

"Not at this time. But we need to clear the premises and conduct our investigations without interference," she answered, her eyes as unyielding as the pair of steel handcuffs that glinted at her belt.

Under the watchful gaze of what felt like every member of New York's finest, I returned to my office—a sanctuary of artifacts and history now tainted by suspicion. I packed my belongings into an empty box: photos of past exhibitions, a dog-eared copy of 'The Complete Tutankhamun', and a snow globe from a conference in Rome—the treasures of my professional life reduced to cardboard captivity.

"Is all this really necessary?" I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice and the tears that threatened to spill over from falling.

"Standard procedure, ma’am," replied a young officer who looked like he'd be more comfortable battling spreadsheets than crime.

With the box in tow, I was then escorted to the precinct. Questions flew at me like arrows, each one trying to pierce the truth—or what they thought was the truth. Was I involved? Did I know anything about the stolen relics?

"Look, I love history, not heist movies," I finally blurted out after hours of interrogation. "The only thing I've ever stolen was extra cream cheese for my bagel at the cafeteria once."

After what felt like an eternity, they allowed me to go home, but not without a parting shot straight to the bow of my sinking spirits. "Don't leave town, Ms. Bray. We'll be in touch."

Stepping out onto the street, I hailed a cab with the enthusiasm of someone flagging down a ride to their own execution. As I settled into the backseat, my thoughts raced. I had to fix this. I had to clear my name. But first, I needed sleep, even if it would be only a fleeting refuge from the reality that was quickly turning the story of my life from a happy-ever-after to a tragic tale.

***

The first fingers of dawn were prying open the night sky by the time I stumbled into my apartment, a cramped little space that seemed to mock me with its clutter and confinement. The door creaked in protest as I shut it behind me, leaning against the wood for support, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.

"Home sweet home," I whispered sarcastically to no one, kicking off my shoes and leaving them at the entry as I made my way like a zombie to the bathroom. Flicking on the overhead blub, I stared my reflection in the mirror. My dirty blonde hair was a mess, sticking out at angles defying gravity, and my eyes—once sharp and hazel—were now red pools of defeat. In my business casual attire, now wrinkled and as tired as I felt, I looked like the poster child for a hot mess.

After mustering enough energy to wash up and change into my softest pair of pajamas, I collapsed into bed, the smiling faces of my parents from their fiftieth wedding anniversary gazing at me from the framed photo I kept on my bedside table the last thing I saw before I clicked off the light.

A surprise baby, my parents used to say, born when they had already settled into the comfortable notion that it would be just the two of them, forever. They were solid, blue-collar through and through, and now they spent their golden years in assisted living, relying on me—their college-educated miracle—to make them proud.

"Can't let you down," I mumbled, pulling the thin blanket over myself. Sleep tugged at my consciousness, and as slumber took me, tears escaped, tracing salty paths along my cheeks. I cried until dreams mercifully enveloped me in their numbing embrace.

But peace was short-lived. A loud knock jolted me awake. Had the police come back already to haul me away again?

"Coming," I croaked, voice hoarse with sleep and sorrow. I dragged myself to the door, checking the peephole before unlatching the locks. It wasn't the police or the ominous figures that haunted my frazzled mind. No, standing on the other side, was an unexpected visitor—one that would either add to the comedy or tragedy of my current predicament.

Blinking against the harsh light of the hallway, I squinted up at my on-again, off-again boyfriend’s face. His expression was one of irritation, but his dark hair was a tousled mess, as if he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times through it.

"Charlotte, you didn't answer any of my messages,” Dean said. “Look, I know I’ve messed up more than once, but I genuinely care about your welfare. Seriously, I was about to call in the cavalry.”

"Sorry, I—" The words caught in my throat, a dam holding back a flood of dread and embarrassment. My apartment seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as I faced him. Despite the fact Dean and I seemed to have different definitions of monogamy, he was still the best friend I had.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, his eyes scanning my disheveled form. "Jesus, you look like hell."

I grimaced. “Thanks,” I muttered, leading him to the couch that doubled as my thinking spot and emergency bed for unwanted early morning thoughts.

"Dean..." I started, unsure how to untangle the series of events that had led to my disgrace. "The museum—remember the Vase of Hathor that I told you had disappeared from storage last week? Guess what. Now another artifact has gone missing. Not just missing, either. Stolen. Under my watch."

"Damn, Charlotte," Dean breathed out, raking a hand through his hair again. He’d always reminded me of Hugh Grant, if Hugh Grant were an American software developer, that is.

"And they think you're involved?" His eyebrows arched in disbelief, a silent testament to his faith in me.

"Involved? No, not exactly. More like, responsible. And now I'm under investigation, suspended from the job that means... everything to me." My sniffle sent Dean running to grab the box of tissue from the bathroom. He’d never been good with emotions, his or other people’s. He sat down beside me again and passed me the box.

I plucked a tissue from it and blew my nose loudly while Dean gazed up at the ceiling, shifting uncomfortably.

"You are innocent, right?" He asked when I threw the crumpled wad in the direction of the coffee table.

"Of course!" I shot back, the fierceness in my voice surprising even myself.

"Okay. Then you simply need prove it, that’s all." His assertion was so simple, so Dean.

"Oh, that’s all, Mr. Smarty Pants?" I threw my hands into the air with exasperation. “Now why didn’t I just think of that?”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a frustrated toddler.

“I’m not exactly the dullest tool in the shed, you know,” he said, tapping his temple with his forefinger. “I mean, I despise getting my hands actually dirty, as you know, but I might not have a reputation for being the next Bill Gates in the making for nothing. How about if I offer to help you out. It’s the least I can do, to make up for my, er, past shortcomings. Also, what other choice do you have?”

I stared at him coolly. It was reckless, it was mad—it was my only option.

"Alright, Sherlock," I said, heaving a sigh. "Let's do this."

“Yippee,” he replied, rubbing his hands together and rising from the sofa.

“Then why don't you grab a shower and try your best to look alive," he continued with a smirk. “I’ll stop by my place and pick up my laptop. Meet me in an hour at the diner on 44 th ?”

I rolled my eyes but was unable to suppress the hint of a smile. "Exactly what every girl wants to hear from her ex-boyfriend. But yes, you’ve got a deal."

"Ex-current-whatever," he corrected playfully with a wink.

Before I could protest, he was gone, leaving a trail of expensive cologne that I was convinced did permanent damage to my nostrils behind him.

***

After a shower that did little to wash away the dread but successfully removed the grime of yesterday, I trudged the few blocks from my building to the diner. The bell above the door tinkled as I entered, and Dean waved from our usual booth, his laptop open and a stack of papers beside it.

"Ah, there she is! Revived and ready for action!" Dean announced with a nod, lifting his steaming mug of coffee to me.

"Hardly," I grumbled, sliding into the worn leather seat across from him. "But I'm here."

The waitress, a kind-faced woman who'd served us through various stages of relationship drama, arrived with plastic-covered menus. I barely glanced at mine before snapping it shut.

"Charlotte Bray, not even looking at the menu? That's a first," Dean teased, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

"Today calls for everything," I said, and when the server came back, I ordered the works—pancakes piled high with whipped cream, crispy bacon, golden hashbrowns, the lot. If I were about to be homeless, I might as well have one last feast.

"Wow, not worried about maintaining your girlish figure anymore, huh?" Dean remarked as my mountain of food arrived along with his plate of eggs and toast.

"Feels appropriate given the circumstances," I muttered between bites of syrup-drenched pancake. "Plus, this might be my last meal before cardboard boxes become my new dining tables."

"Come on, you're not street-bound yet," Dean chided gently. "Glass half full, remember?"

“Easy for you to say when your glass isn't being held as evidence by the NYPD," I retorted.

He laughed and swiped a bit of whipped cream from my plate with his fingertip. “Touche.”

His fingers danced across the laptop keyboard as I chewed a crunchy piece of bacon. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

"Find something?" I asked, wiping the grease from my lips with my napkin.

"Get this," he began, his eyes alight with the thrill of discovery as he turned the screen so I could see it. "The vase—stunning, right? Well, legend has it that it was crafted to contain the Jewel of Isis, which as you know, was an ancient gemstone said to possess otherworldly powers. The jewel's guardian was supposed to be chosen by the gods themselves."

"Let me guess, the guardian would be given the gift of immortality? Infinite riches?" I asked, skeptically arching an eyebrow while I reached for my coffee.

"Close. The jewel supposedly grants wisdom and protection to its bearer. But together, the vase and the amulet are said to unlock something even greater—some cryptic 'Path of the Gods' or something."

"Hm,” mused. “I wasn’t aware of that part. Most art thieves are simply criminals looking to sell the artifacts on the black market to the highest bidder. They don’t know anything about the historical significance of the relics themselves. However, in this case, it sounds like whoever took the jewel and the vase might have a bigger goal in mind.”

"Exactly," Dean said, rotating the device back toward him and tapping the keyboard triumphantly. "And here's where it gets really interesting."

I leaned in closer, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

"Found an old explorer's journal in the university library archives," he continued. “Check this out." He turned the screen toward me once more, revealing the image of a hand-drawn map scribbled over with various crisscrossing lines and symbols.

"Is that...?" I squinted at the intricate lines and landmarks.

"Yep, a map of Egypt," he confirmed. "And according to the margin notes, whoever penned this believed it leads to the location tied to the vase and jewel."

"Are we seriously considering following some ancient treasure map?" I scoffed, yet the prospect sent a flurry of excitement running through my veins.

"Who is this ‘we’? I don’t do airplanes, remember?” He made an expression of distaste and shuddered. “Ew. Besides, I have a big release I’m working on due out next month. Nope. Charlotte Bray, treasure hunter extraordinaire. Imagine the headlines when you clear your name and uncover one of history's greatest mysteries."

I laughed at the outlandish proclamation, but the diner's buzz faded into the background as I studied the map's path again. My heart began to beat a little faster, even though I knew the chances of me finding anything that countless explorers had somehow managed to overlook for centuries were slim to none.

"Could this really be where the thief is heading with the artifacts?" I murmured, the gears in my brain already turning.

"Only one way to find out," Dean replied with a shrug.

I pushed aside the remnants of my feast, determination settling like a mantle over my shoulders. "Very true. I have nothing left to lose, and everything to prove. Book me on the next flight to Egypt.”

We clinked our coffee mugs together and Dean set about making my arrangements. I’d taken risks before to get what I wanted, but never anything like this. Whatever the future held, I knew after Egypt, nothing in my life would ever be the same.