I DROVE out of Aunt Lindsey’s little township before sunup, bleary from lack of sleep and feeling as though my calf might combust at any moment. I had nothing with me but Anna’s collection. Not even a change of clothes. I’d thought about leaving Aunt Linds a diamond or a sapphire, but if Sean or his cronies came back with a warrant, they’d lock her up for receiving stolen property. They’d do it just to draw me out. And it would work. I’m not brave or strong or fierce or healthy, but no way could I let my aunt spend even one night in jail.
First things first: I needed to convert those jewels into cash. A week ago that would have been easy. Anthony knew people. Sean knew people. A half million dollars’ worth of jewels would have fetched a half million dollars in bills.
But now everything had changed. I’d have to take whatever a pawnshop was willing to give me.
There’s a long string of cash-for-goods joints on Hillsborough Avenue, mixed in with the liquor stores and tattoo parlors, but unfortunately pawnbrokers don’t tend to be early risers. Not as early as Aunt Lindsey, anyway. The best I could find was an 8:00 a.m. open. That left me with two hours to kill. Two hours is a long time when you can’t be seen in public.
I bought a latte and two slices of lemon pound cake at the drive-in window of a Starbucks, then sat in the parking lot sipping and nibbling. The sugar and caffeine made me queasy, but at least there’d be no chance of my drifting off. I wouldn’t let myself sleep again until I found a bed in a town or city where I knew nobody, and where nobody who knew me would think to look.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp, a skeletal man with a slick comb-over and a bad case of scoliosis opened the door to Quick Money Pawn & Gun. I gave him ten minutes to get settled, then followed him inside, tote bag hanging from my right shoulder. The place was a junkyard with a roof over its head. You couldn’t take a step without tripping over an appliance or a box of comic books. Rifles and guitars hung side by side on every wall. Bicycles dangled from the ceiling. Power tools filled a metal shelving unit stuck precariously in the center of the store. Boxes of cheap cigars stood ten deep at the far end of the counter.
The owner was smoking one now, eyeing me from behind a glass display case cluttered with knives and watches and the kind of costume jewelry Anna Costello wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. I walked over to him, set the bag on the counter, kept the straps drawn tight.
“My first of the day,” he said, turning his head to blow out a ring of very rank-smelling smoke. “What can I do you for?”
I had to wonder how many sad and desperate women had been here before, standing where I now stood, hoping this greasy stick figure of a man would pay enough for their baubles to get them out of town.
“I’ve got something—some things—I’d like to sell,” I said.
I stopped there. I had a whole sales pitch planned, but my voice was quaking, and I knew the more I talked the more I’d give myself away. Instead, I just opened the bag.
He took a long look inside, and while he looked it dawned on me that he might very well have ties to the Costello family. Pawnshops need protection. More protection than most businesses. On top of which they’re an invaluable source of intel. A handgun just came in? Who sold it, and who got clipped the night before? Someone pawned a sixty-four-inch TV and a set of silver steak knives? Who got robbed, and how much would they pay to get their stuff back? I cursed myself for the risk I was taking, but it was too late now. Besides, I didn’t exactly have an abundance of options.
“Interesting,” the man said. “Very interesting.”
Interesting? It had to be the biggest haul his little shop had ever seen.
“You are looking to sell all of this?” he asked.
I nodded.
He started sifting through the bag, cautiously at first, but then two pieces in particular caught his attention: Anna’s antique silver locket, and a high-clarity blue sapphire pendant that Anthony had given her quite publicly at a banquet celebrating their tenth anniversary. The broker set them on his palm, held them up to the light.
“I need to look at these under the glass,” he said. “Please wait here—I’ll just be a moment.”
I started to protest, but before I could get out a word he’d turned his back to me and slipped into a side room. I thought about sacrificing those two pieces and running off with the rest. What if he was on the phone to the police? To Vincent? Maybe he’d recognized the sapphire. Maybe he’d been at that banquet.
Not yet, Sarah, I told myself. Hold your ground.
After what felt like a dozen lifetimes, he came back, grinning from ear to ear. I guessed this was his salesman persona.
“Sixty thousand,” he said. Just like that.
“For the two pieces?”
“For all of it.”
I studied his expression. He wasn’t joking. It was enough to snap me out of flight mode.
“Sixty thousand?” I said. “They’re worth ten times that.”
“Yes,” he said, “but how much is discretion worth?”
I took a step back, stumbled over a crate of naked Barbie dolls.
“Discretion?” I said.
“I’ve been at this a long while,” he said. “You and I both know those jewels don’t belong to you. We both know how you came by them, and we both know that whoever you took them from has far more resources than you do.”
I reached for the bag, grabbed the closest strap. He grabbed the other.
“How do you know this isn’t a sting?” I bluffed.
He sniggered.
“Like I said, I’ve been at this awhile. I can tell the difference between a setup and a getaway. There’s a window in my office. I took down your license plate. I’ll know who you are five minutes after you walk out that door. Is sixty thousand starting to sound fair?”
I nodded, felt my face turning colors.
“I should think so”—he smiled—“given what you paid for them.”
The stacks of bills fit neatly inside Anna’s tote bag.