The VIP parking garage was silent, save for the hum of ventilation fans and the occasional drip of condensation. It was a showroom of wealth: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and right in the center, occupying two spaces, Hilliard's armored Maybach.

Hilliard's driver, a burly man named Kent, was leaning against a concrete pillar, scrolling through his phone.

Suddenly, his phone pinged. A notification: Congratulations! You've won a free year of coffee! Click to redeem at the lobby kiosk!

Kent blinked. "Free coffee?" He looked at the car, then at the elevator. "I'll be two minutes."

He walked away.

The moment the elevator doors closed, a small ventilation grate near the floor popped open.

Davy rolled out, dusting off his knees. He was followed by Elia, who looked like a soot-covered angel.

"Clear," Elia whispered.

Aron's voice came through their earpieces. "Cameras looped. You have five minutes before the loop resets."

Davy unzipped his backpack. He pulled out a can of neon pink spray paint. He shook it.

Clack-clack-clack.

The sound echoed in the garage.

Davy grinned. He stepped up to the pristine black hood of the Maybach.

PSSSHHHHHT.

He sprayed a large, jagged, crooked letter D. Then an E.

"Make it big," Elia encouraged, bouncing on her toes.

Davy finished the word. DEADBEAT. It dripped pink slime down the front grille.

"Perfect," Davy said.

"Upload the virus," Aron commanded.

Davy plugged a small USB drive into the car's external sensor port. "Locking him out... now."

Suddenly, the elevator chimed.

"Abort! Abort!" Elia hissed.

The boys scrambled, diving behind a thick concrete pillar. Elia turned to run, but her foot caught on a grease stain. She stumbled, sliding behind a large trash can just as the doors opened.

It wasn't the driver. It was a security guard on patrol.

The guard walked past the Maybach. He stopped. He dropped his flashlight.

"Holy sht," he muttered. He grabbed his radio. "Control, we have a 10-99 in the VIP garage. Someone vandalized Mr. Holloway's vehicle."

While the guard was distracted calling it in, Elia sprinted across the open space to join her brothers.

"Go, go, go!" Davy whispered.

They squeezed back into the stairwell.

Elia reached up to fix her hair. She froze.

"My ribbon," she whispered. Her hand touched her ponytail. The custom velvet ribbon Cailin had made for her was gone.

"Leave it," Aron said, pulling her arm. "We can't go back."

Upstairs, in the main hall, Monsieur Laurent found Cali. He looked pale.

"Madame, a VIP client demands your expertise. Immediately."

"I have a headache, Laurent. Send someone else."

"I cannot," Laurent whispered. "It is Ms. Charla English. She is... making a scene."

The name hit Cali like a physical blow.

Charla.

The woman who had smiled while Cailin's life burned down.

Cali straightened her spine. A cold, dangerous calm settled over her. She adjusted her mask.

"Fine," she said. "I'll handle her."

She walked toward the VIP suite, her heels clicking against the marble floor like gunshots. Click. Click. Click.

She entered the suite.

Charla was sitting on a velvet sofa, sipping champagne. She looked exactly the same as she had five years ago-beautiful, polished, and radiating entitlement.

She looked up as Cali entered. She looked the masked woman up and down with a sneer.

"You're the help?" Charla asked. "Fetch me some water. Sparkling. No ice."

Cali didn't move. She stood tall, her eyes hidden behind the mask, burning with hatred.

"I am the broker, Ms. English," Cali said, her voice dropping to that low, modulated register. "Not your maid."

Charla blinked, surprised by the tone. "Excuse me?"

"You asked for an appraisal," Cali said, walking to the table. "Show me the item. I don't have all night."

Charla scoffed, setting her champagne glass down with a sharp clink. "Rude. I should have you fired."

"You can try," Cali said coolly. "But this is my house."

Charla rolled her eyes. She reached into her purse and pulled out a black velvet box. "Whatever. Just appraise this. I'm insuring it for a million. It needs to be official."

She slid the box across the table.

Cali reached out. Her gloved fingers brushed the velvet. She opened it.

The air left her lungs.

Inside sat an emerald brooch. It was shaped like a fern, encrusted with tiny diamonds.

It wasn't just any brooch. It was the Morton family heirloom. It was the piece Cailin's mother had worn on her wedding day. It was supposed to be in the safe in the penthouse-the safe Cailin had left behind when she fled.

Charla gloated, watching Cali stare at the jewelry. "It's gorgeous, isn't it? A gift from my fiancé. Well, technically, he hasn't proposed officially yet, but he will. Any day now."

Cali's hands began to tremble. She clenched them into fists to hide it.

She stole it. Hilliard would never have given this away. Not this. Which meant Charla had taken it, looting her home, picking through the bones of Cailin's life like a vulture.

Cali picked up a jeweler's loupe. She brought the brooch closer to her eye. She knew exactly what to look for-a tiny chip on the emerald's underside, from when her grandmother had dropped it in 1950.

She turned it over.

There it was. The chip.

It was real.

"The setting is dated," Cali said. Her voice was ice. "Mid-century. Clunky. Not very... fashionable for a woman of your taste."

Charla bristled. "It's vintage. It belonged to Hilliard's late wife. The crazy one."

Cali gripped the loupe so hard the metal dug into her palm. "Crazy?"

Charla laughed, a light, tinkling sound that made Cali want to vomit. "Oh, yes. Mental instability. She killed her own baby, you know. Terminated it at seven months just to spite him. Then ran off and died in a ditch somewhere. Tragic, really."

The room spun. The red haze of rage clouded Cali's vision. Killed her baby? Is that what he told people? Is that the lie they spun?

Cali dropped the brooch back into the box. CLACK.

"I cannot appraise this," Cali said.

Charla stood up. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am?"

"I know exactly who you are," Cali said. The double meaning hung heavy in the air. "This piece carries... bad energy. Stolen energy."

Charla's face turned red. "How dare you! I-"

The door to the suite opened.

Hilliard walked in. He looked annoyed, checking his watch.

"Charla, security says something happened to the car. We need to leave. Now."

Charla's face instantly transformed. The anger vanished, replaced by a trembling lip and wide, teary eyes.

"Hill!" she cried, rushing to him. "This woman! She insulted me! She said the brooch has bad energy!"

Hilliard didn't look at Charla. He looked past her, straight at the woman in the mask.

Cali stood frozen.

Hilliard stared. The posture. The way she held her hands. The defiant tilt of her chin.

It hit him again. That sense of déjà vu.

"Have we met?" Hilliard asked. He stepped closer, ignoring Charla clinging to his arm.

Cali's heart hammered against her ribs. She took a step back.

"I appraise art, Mr. Holloway," she said. "Not people. Good evening."

She turned to leave.

Cali moved toward the door, desperate to escape the suffocating proximity of the man she had once loved.

Hilliard sidestepped, blocking her path. He didn't do it aggressively, but with the casual arrogance of a man who was used to people stopping for him.

"Wait," he said. "My fiancée is upset. Apologize."

He didn't care about Charla's feelings. He just wanted to hear her voice again. There was something in the cadence, the rhythm... it scratched at a door in his mind he had welded shut five years ago.

Cali stiffened. She looked up at him through the eyeholes of the mask. Her green eyes-usually so warm-were shards of glass.

"I owe no apologies for the truth," she said.

Charla gasped behind him. "See? She's impossible!"

Hilliard ignored Charla completely. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a checkbook.

"I need a private broker for my estate," he said, his eyes boring into Cali's. "Most people here are sycophants. You have... fire."

He pulled a gold pen from his pocket, signed a check, and left the amount line blank.

He held it out to her.

"Name your price," he said. "Exclusively. I want you to manage my collection."

Cali looked at the check. It was freedom. It was power. It was a trap.

"I am not for sale, Mr. Holloway," she said.

She knocked his hand aside. As she brushed past him, her bare arm grazed his hand.

The brief contact was nothing, a flicker of warmth, but Hilliard's attention was snagged by something else. A movement. As she pulled away, her left hand came up defensively, and he saw her thumb instinctively rub the bare skin of her ring finger-a ghost of a gesture for a ring long gone. A gesture he'd seen Cailin make a thousand times when she was nervous.

He gasped. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Reflex.

"Who are you?" he whispered. The intensity in his voice was terrifying.

Cali panicked.

She lifted her foot, clad in a sharp Stiletto, and stomped down hard on the toe of his expensive Italian leather shoe.

"Argh!" Hilliard grunted, pain shooting up his leg. His grip loosened.

Cali yanked her arm free and sprinted out the door, down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

Hilliard stood there, rubbing his wrist. He looked down at his scuffed shoe.

He smiled.

It was a dark, twisted smile. A smile that hadn't touched his face in half a decade.

"She stomped on me," he muttered. "Interesting."

"She assaulted you!" Charla shrieked. "Call the police! Have her arrested!"

Hilliard's smile vanished. He turned to Charla, his face cold again. "Be quiet, Charla. Go to the car."

He walked out, leaving her fuming.

He took the elevator down to the garage.

His driver and a cluster of security guards were standing around the Maybach.

Hilliard stopped. He stared at the hood.

DEADBEAT.

The pink letters were screaming at him.

"Deadbeat?" Hilliard whispered. The word felt like a slap.

"We're scrubbing the tapes, sir," the head of security said nervously. "But... we found this."

The guard held out a clear plastic evidence bag.

Inside was a small, black velvet hair ribbon.

Hilliard took the bag. He stared at the ribbon. It was tiny. Delicate.

"A child?" Hilliard asked. "A child did this?"

"Seems so, sir. The vents were compromised."

Hilliard looked at the graffiti again. A child calling him a deadbeat.

He pocketed the ribbon.

He pulled out his phone. "Gavin. Pull the security tapes for the entire building. I want to know who that broker is. And I want to know who that kid belongs to."