I tense. Tingles speed down my spine and into my extremities. That soft knock-knock has been my lifeline for weeks. A sound that I’ve been deprived of for too long.
With a frantic gasp, I fetch my phone. Butterflies buzz in my belly as I navigate to the Silent Sins app with trembling fingers.
“Ross…” I whisper to myself in nothing short of yearning as I open his message.
Rosswell: Hello, my dragonfly girl. Missed me?
A manic grin stretches my face, and I nibble on my nails like a five-year-old as I think of what to reply. His next message comes first.
Rosswell: Say yes.
My phone has become an extension of my hand, it seems. I don’t even dare to leave it on my desk for a minute, afraid I’d miss the ping I’ve been desperately waiting for.
So far, my phone hasn’t uttered a peep.
I’ve muted all calls and messages, save for any notifications from my Silent Sins app. With a sigh, I stuff the device into the pocket of my slacks, fixing my vacant stare at the Buccellati ring in nook number six.
Funny how fast an obsession can shift from one object to another. There was a time I couldn’t stop racking my brain about the damn alexandrite ring that went missing shortly before Vincent moved from his fancy apartment to a six-by-eight cell. Now, all I can think about is a girl with hair the color of a chocolate opal, a pair of endless legs, and a dragonfly tattoo.
I fumble with Devon’s pendant around my neck, rubbing the zinc alloy between my fingers. It clinks against the gold pendant Vincent gave me all those years ago.
What’s your name, dragonfly girl?
I’ve covered all bases, and then some. I went through all of Valerie’s business calls, hoping to find the number that would lead me to Devon. One-hundred-and-fifty phone calls later, I wasn’t any wiser. From those who picked up, only half were women. Out of those, six were Russian interpreters. Fucking six, of course.
And—surprise—none of them was the one hired for the Imperial Russian Antiques exhibition.
So, I dug my way through all the websites and emailed every damn interpreter in the state. Guess how many answered? Right, six. And again, none of them was Devon.
Nick contacted Milla Jovovich, but she couldn’t remember the name she wrote on Devon’s autograph, not even the damn initials.
That left my only hope—Valerie Fisher, Brooke’s former assistant, and the only employee who’d been in direct contact with Devon. Alas, she threw in the towel on the day of the exhibition. After a dozen attempts to get in touch with her, she hadn’t stooped to call me back, so I took matters into my own hands, made Nick hand over her address, and drove straight to her house in Port Chester.
Let me assure you, Karma exists. It’s as if some weird cosmic force doesn’t want me to succeed. When I arrived at Valerie’s house, no one was home. I even hopped over the fence and tried the back door. No luck there, either. So, I tugged myself back inside my BMW and waited. And waited. And waited.
Until I fell asleep, and an old lady with her white hair in curlers knocked on my door the next morning to inform me that the Fisher family went on a six-month world trip.
I tilt my head back, staring at the wood-paneled ceiling of my office as if waiting for God to give me a sign. I’m starting to think that Devon was nothing more than an illusion. A body I was allowed to touch in the dark, but impalpable in the real world.
Dropping my head back down, I curse under my breath. Whenever Devon’s face pops up in my mind, I have this strange sense of déjà-vu as if I’ve seen her before. As if we crossed paths at some point. That guarded look of hers and that set of plush lips always trigger a memory that I can’t seem to access, no matter how hard I try. It’s driving me crazy. Is it just my imagination running wild? She has started to consume every thought and dream of mine, so chances are my mind is playing tricks on me.
I put my hand back into my pocket, drumming my fingers on my phone. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there, but… what if it’s not an illusion after all? What if I have seen her before? If I could just remember…
Pulling out my phone, I waltz over to my desk and collapse into my leather chair. Carl made good on his promise and reactivated the Silent Sins chat as soon as I dangled the Rolex in front of his nose. I’ve sent Devon a dozen messages, asking if she’s fine, what she’s doing, if there might be a possibility that we’ll meet again soon…
No answer. She hasn’t even typed a single ‘hi.’ Weirdly enough, she has been constantly online, the dot above her avatar turning green the very second she received my texts. I stared at the screen for hours until the glowing pixels burned my retinas, shot her more messages, tried to squeeze a response from her, but nothing came back.
No matter what I say or do, I can’t seem to break through to her, though. Maybe she likes us to play virtual hide-and-seek. Maybe she wants to challenge me, waiting for me to throw in the towel.
I’m going to prove her wrong.
I open the Silent Sins app and start typing.
Rosswell: What are you doing right now? Yoga? Working from home in your cookie pants? Feeding your dragonflies? Touring through the city on your bike?
I drag a finger over my lips, my eyes riveted on the screen. A second later, her dot turns from gray to green. My heart jumps in my chest, and I squirm in my seat.
Yeah, I know you, Devon. I know a lot about you. Give me your secrets. Give me your sins. Open up and put your trust in me.
The dots don’t move. I imagine her reading my text from home, slouching on a cozy, old couch in her cookie pants as she soaks up my words.
Come on, what are you waiting for, dragonfly girl?
The door to my office bursts open, and I jerk in my seat, the phone almost slipping from hands.
Brooke makes a dramatic entrance as usual—heels drilling into the hardwood floor, chin sky-high, and smoky eyes narrowed into slits. She halts in front of my desk, stemming a hand on her hip where a thick, silver belt accentuates her classy dress. The flashy metal is pulled so tight, it constricts her ribcage. How can she even breathe in that thing?
“Oh, good, you’re here.” Her passive-aggressive tone makes me cock an eyebrow at her. “Already thought you quit seeing as you didn’t answer any of my emails since yesterday.”
Reluctantly, I close the app and set my phone on the table. “I was busy.”
“With what?”
“Getting Carl a Rolex Stelline 6062.”
She scrutinizes me while I keep my face blank. Truth is, it only took me three calls to get the rare watch into the next shipping container, but I can hardly tell her that I took two days off to chase down a nameless girl.
“We’ve got a problem,” she says. “One of our Russian clients acquired a piece that got damaged during transit.”
“What piece?”
She crosses her arms and taps her fingers onto her elbows. “Alexandra Georgievna’s diamond tiara.”
I groan. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. One of the diamond-set bars broke. It’s repairable, but it will reduce the market value.”
The famous diamond tiara that once belonged to the Grand Duchess Alexandra Georgievna is worth half a million. Vincent would poke his eye out with a plastic fork from the prison kitchen if he knew it was damaged.