Chapter Three

I stumbled into my shoebox-sized apartment, and the door closed behind me with a creak that sounded suspiciously like a groan. It was later in the day after brunch with Dean, and let me tell you, my belly was still riding high on a tidal wave of pancakes. The buttons on my jeans were holding on for dear life, like little heroes in a syrup-drenched action movie. I exhaled deeply and gave them some mercy, unbuttoning the top one with a satisfying pop.

“What am I even supposed to pack for Egypt?” I muttered to myself, kicking off my shoes and wandering over to my bed. Kneeling, I pulled out the suitcase I kept underneath, unzipped it, and laid it open on top. It seemed to be taunting me with its emptiness. Egypt. Land of the Pharaohs, sand, pyramids, and…heat. I’d seen enough National Geographic specials to know it wasn’t exactly sweater weather out there. The thought of being surrounded by ancient history both thrilled and terrified me, like the first time I ordered sushi. This wouldn’t be like the conference I’d attended in Rome sponsored by the museum with a set itinerary and luxurious accommodations with guaranteed amenities. I could be drinking water from cacti and relying on a camel for my transportation. I’d always considered myself good with animals, although my building didn’t allow for pets, but I had a feeling camels might be different.

I started grabbing random clothes from my closet, which, to be honest, was just a rod jammed between two walls. A couple of bathing suits seemed like a good idea. If I found the lost treasures, cleared my name, got my job back, and still had some time to spare, I might as well get a tan. Maybe even indulge in a massage if Egyptian spas had a Groupon deal going on. I tossed the swimsuits into the suitcase and threw in some shorts, a few T-shirts, and the closest thing I had to adventure gear: an old pair of cargo pants from a failed hiking phase, and a sunhat that looked more suitable for a tea party than a desert expedition. Oh well, I’d simply have to make do since I didn’t have enough time to go shopping.

Turning to my dresser, I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny mirror on the wall, my shoulder-length honey-blonde hair catching the light from the single bulb that had miraculously survived the harsh conditions of my ceiling fixture. My reflection looked back at me with a mix of excitement and disbelief. Despite my lack of sleep, I felt energized. Granted, it could have something to do with all the caffeine and sugar I’d consumed at breakfast, but I’d take it. Was I really doing this? Jetting off to Egypt to chase after stolen artifacts, and hopefully, clear my name? This wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured spending my summer, but then again, what better way to beat the New York humidity than with some dry desert air?

As I packed, I thought about the bizarre events that had led me here. One day, I was a perfectly respectable newly hired museum curator, and the next, I was the prime suspect in an art heist. The police thought I was the one who’d swiped them, but I knew better. Someone had set me up. Someone who knew just enough to make it look like I was the guilty party. Or at least, someone who obviously had no compunction about throwing me under the bus to take the blame.

I reached for my junk-journal, my constant companion and sanity-saver. This thing was more than just a journal—it was my personal scrapbook, planner, and memory vault. Its pages were stuffed with ticket stubs, scraps of paper, dried flowers, and whatever else I felt like gluing in. Some people meditated to find their zen; I preferred a glue stick and a pile of paper scraps. Flipping through its pages was like flipping through my life, with all its messy, colorful moments.

I ran my fingers over the cover, a patchwork of stickers, photos, and doodles. I couldn’t go anywhere without it. I slipped the journal into my suitcase, along with my favorite gel pens and a glue stick just in case I had time to document my Egyptian adventure on the go. My monthly junk-journal and movie night with my best friend, Adeline Wilson, was scheduled for next week, and the thought of missing it made my heart sink a little. Addie and I had been friends since college, bonding over our shared love of crafts and cheesy Hallmark movies.

I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to Addie: “Hey, I have to bail on our Hallmark-and-glue fest next week. Got myself into a bit of a pickle. I’ll fill you in when I can.” I hesitated before hitting send, wondering how much to tell her. Addie had a knack for worrying, especially when it came to me. But before I could overthink it, the message was already delivered.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed with her reply. “Why? What’s up? You okay? I saw the news about the stolen artifacts. Are you in trouble?”

“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.