Right here in my hands.
I stare at the black and white image more intently.
Not a crime scene.
Not a mug shot.
An egg.
A golden egg, to be precise, inlaid with dozens of sparkling sapphires and brilliant rubies and glittering emeralds. I know this to be the case, even though the photograph shows no color at all. Because I’ve seen this egg before. I’ve held it in my hands, turned it over in my fingers with disdain before tossing it away in the bottom of a jewelry box, thinking it no more than some cheap bauble made from synthesized crystal that Paul picked up on a whim. Just one more gift in the long series he sent, trying to win me back.
But this…
This is no cheap bauble.
No useless trinket.
No inexpensive paperweight.
This is…
“A Fabergé egg,” I marvel aloud, feeling like my head might explode. I wait one, two, three long seconds before I set the photograph carefully on the table, suck in a deep breath, and bellow at the top of my lungs.
“CONOR!”
* * *
“A Fabergé Egg,”I say, pacing like a madwoman across the living room. “He stole a Fabergé Egg.”
“I know, Hunt. You’ve said it six times, now.”
“Not just any Fabergé Egg, either. A freaking Tsar Imperial Fabergé Egg.”
Conor sighs.
“And not just any Tsar Imperial Fabergé Egg. One of thelong lostTsar Imperial Fabergé Eggs.”
“Hunt—”
I shake my head. “I should’ve figured it out the other night, when he started speaking French. Paul doesn’t speak French! And yet, I didn’t blink a freaking eye when he kept saying ‘nécessaire’like a damn sommelier.” I pause. “Of course, at the time, I thought he was telling me it was necessary to run. I didn’t knowNécessairewas the name of the damn Egg. An Egg no one has seen, by the way, since 1952. At least, according to the brief Google search I conducted ten minutes ago while you were on the phone with Evelson.”
“Not sure you’re in the right state of mind to be Googling anything at the moment, Hunt.”
I ignore him.“Surprise, surprise!Nécessaireis not lost to history after all. Unless byhistoryyou’re referring to three months ago, when I tossed it in the bottom of a jewelry box like it was a freaking pair of fifteen dollar earrings.”
“Hunt—”
“Did you hear me? Ithrew it. I actuallythrewa Fabergé Egg. A freaking relic.”
“Shelby.Breathe.”
I whirl to look at him. “Breathe?! How can I breathe, Conor? My no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating ex decided it would be a good idea to steal a priceless object from his uncle, then sent it tome— presumably to keep it hidden for him until he could find a way to get the Evanoffs off his tail and come collect it again. Like I’m his own personal, illegal artifact storage facility. A drug mule, if you will. Except I’m more of an egg mule. Which isn’t a thing. At least, so far as I know.” My head tilts. “There could be a black market for eggs, I suppose.Free-range, organic, cage-free, Cadbury, Easter, over-easy…”
“Hunt.” His lips are twitching. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’ve had a stroke.”
“Me neither, to be honest.” My voice breaks. “I just didn’t see this happening.”
“Your newfound obsession with egg varieties?”