All the mismatched, colorful throw pillows and the collection of blankets were thrifted, though. So was the whole gallery wall of art behind it, the record player, the cabinet it sat on, and all the records beneath it. The TV came secondhand from one of the Costa guys who upgraded to a bigger screen. It had an annoying pixel burnt out in one corner, but I hardly ever sat down to watch TV. I just left it on for Tuna on the days when he didn’t want to come to work with me, or insisted I bring him home early.
Which was how I caught the news as I walked around flicking off the big lights and turning on my abundance of warm golden table lamps and lighting a few candles.
It was a habit of mine—slowing down, creating ambiance, savoring the night. It made me feel like a main character in some ‘90s romcom.
“The victim has been identified as twenty-four-year-old Robin Moody,” the newscaster said, making my gaze flick to the screen where B-roll was playing of the activity outside the apartment building I’d stopped at earlier. But that wasn’t what had me stiffening.
Oh, no.
That was the picture of a young, pretty, blonde-haired woman with one hazel eye and one light brown one.
“You can comment on them. Everyone does.” That was what she said to me when she’d been standing on the other side of the counter, her sleeves pulled down over her hands in what looked to me like a defensive and vulnerable gesture.
Robin had been in my shop a little over a week ago. Shifting her feet, casting glances toward the street.
At the time, I’d figured she was maybe there to hock something that belonged to her boyfriend or roommate or something.
“I, uh, I heard that you can sometimes, um, hold onto things.”
“Sometimes,” I agreed. I was careful about when I did that and for whom. I couldn’t run a business if almost everything inside of it was full of stuff I’d agreed not to sell. “It depends on the situation and the item.”
There was no way I could afford another couple grand like I did with Dotty and her engagement ring.
“It’s just this,” she said, reaching into her giant tote bag and placing a wooden box on the counter.
It wasn’t anything to write home about. Sure, it actually appeared to be solid wood. And, yeah, there were some well-done carvings in it. But it was a dime-a-dozen kind of box. Not likely to sell even if I priced it to.
I popped open the lid, and a little ballerina started to dance as an awful, tinny sound escaped the box. Like whatever mechanism there was that made it was rusted.
Cute.
But worth even less.
People were always looking for things to stick their crap in: jars, containers, decorative boxes.
But a box with a little novelty ballerina taking up half the space inside? Might as well just toss it in the discount bin.
“You want me to hold onto this for you? Why?”
“It has a lot of value,” Robin said. Then, adding quickly, “You know, sentimental value.”
“Okay. Well, I can’t give you more than, like, forty for it. It wouldn’t even be worth that if you don’t come back for it.”
“I’ll be back for it in, like, two weeks. I just… I just want to make sure nothing happens to it.”
“Okay. Well, I can do that. But can you fill this out for me?” I asked, passing her a document I’d drafted out years ago. It collected some basic information so I could contact them before I put the item on the shelves. Sometimes, if they were nice or upset enough, I would give them an extension.
“Oh, sure. And you won’t put it on the shelves, right?” she asked, slamming the box’s lid to silence the grating music, then reaching for her pen.
“No. I keep this kind of thing behind the counter or in the back storage room. For the time we agree on. After that, all bets are off, though.”
“Got it. That won’t, uh—” She trailed off, jumping as the shadow of someone fell over the countertop. It was just a man pausing to look at the display in the window before walking away. But everything about Robin had tightened. I could practically see her pulse fluttering in her throat.
She tried to blow it off, running a hand through her hair, rolling her shoulders. But I knew what I’d seen. Again, though, I chalked it up to an issue with a boyfriend or something like that. Maybe even a street harasser.
“That won’t be a problem,” she said, rushing through the paperwork, passing it to me, then pushing the box closer to me. “Please, just keep it safe for me.”
With that, she tried to go to the door.
