I had received extensive training in a hand-to-hand combat style called Krav Maga. Our sparring sessions were long and grueling because Freya never submitted. But neither did I. And the strange ability we’d always had to read each other’s minds made it all the more challenging.
“I never back down, Evandale, you know that,” I said, still refusing to look at her. “And if I remember correctly, you might have knocked me on my ass. But I was the one who pinned you to the ground.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her flush. A flare of her nostrils. Seven years later and here we were, seated next to each other, ready to take the other one down. So it was no surprise that I still felt the aching, illicit thrill of the fight. Of her fight.
Next to me, Freya shifted farther away. But not before muttering, “Pervert.”
It startled a laugh, which I covered with my fist. Freya’s mouth tipped up slightly.
When was the last time I’d done that?
Abe clapped his hands together. “Morning, everyone. Sam, happy to have you back.”
“Morning, sir,” I said. “I’m excited to get to work.”
I didn’t have to look at Freya to feel her rolling her eyes.
“We’re talking strategies around the book festival,” Abe said. “Freya’s code words, any updates we can fill Sam in on.”
“I’ve got good news on the code front,” Freya said. “I think I’ve got these weirdo rich assholes figured out.”
I was struggling to admit I was actually interested in this. The Art Theft unit was mired in bureaucracy, which meant I was levels removed from this kind of on-the-ground investigative work. If there were code words being discussed by my team back at the Bureau, I wasn’t aware of them. But I wanted to be.
“Do go on,” Abe was saying. “I want to make sure that we—”
But a rapping knock sliced through the room. Abe stopped.
“Are we expecting anyone?” Henry asked as he stood. Abe shook his head as Henry moved through the office. There was only quiet from Henry as the sounds of his footsteps reached the door.
“Who is it?” Delilah called over her shoulder.
“Well,” Henry said slowly, “I believe it’s Scarlett O’Riley.”
A stunned silence echoed through the room.
“The Scarlett O’Riley?” Abe clarified.
“I think…yes. Yes, the.”
“Well, for god’s sake, let her in,” Abe instructed. But we were already standing, crowding toward Henry. Who was, indeed, welcoming the Scarlett O’Riley into the Codex office. She was Hollywood’s latest It Girl—the young, rebellious, pink-haired director the world was currently obsessed with. And she was standing in our doorway, nervously shifting on her feet.
“I’m looking for Abraham Royal?” The woman—Scarlett—said.
Smooth as ever, Abe stepped forward, shook her hand.
“I’m Abraham,” he said. “Can we help you?”
In person, she was as bright and shiny as she’d been earlier that year when she’d become the youngest film director to win an Oscar. Her next project was already receiving a ton of attention, and it hadn’t even started filming yet.
“I sincerely fucking hope so,” she replied. “I’m Scarlett O’Riley, and I’m directing a film about the writer George Sand.”
“We’ve heard of it,” he promised. “And of course, we’ve heard of you.”
She blew out a shaky breath. “George’s love letters to the poet Alfred de Musset are a focal point of my biopic. The originals are being used on set, and we arranged to borrow them from the Franklin Museum and transport them to Los Angeles.”
Understanding was starting to dawn on Abe’s face.
“Early this morning, I met Francisco and his conservation team to oversee the preparation of the letters for transport. We’d agreed to meet at six to get an early start to the day. Two drivers were already in the parking lot, waiting to make the cross-country trip.” Scarlett was flushed, disconcerted. “When Francisco let us into the storage room, they were gone.”
“All thirteen of them?” Henry looked physically pained.
“Yes,” she replied. “Sometime in the night, the letters were stolen. I don’t know, this is all very new to me and entirely unexpected. We need those letters to be on set, in Los Angeles, in four days. They cannot be lost or stolen or whatever the fuck happened to them.”
“Let me guess,” Abe mused. “Francisco sent you to us because of our discretion.”
“It’s the first thing he did,” she said. “No cops. No authorities. We just need the letters back and we need it done now.”
Freya’s emerald gaze found mine, and a frisson of adrenaline tangled between us. I should have felt more star-struck by