Page 18 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

I glanced back toward the open parlor. From here, I couldn’t see my mother, only the spill of warm light across the threshold and the edge of one tall vase in the hall. My father followed my gaze.

“Your grandfather lost his mind in pieces,” he said quietly. “So did your mother. I know why you look at patterns and worry they’re promises.” He paused. “The sorrow in your blood doesn’t foretell your future, it is simply your history.”

Something in my chest shifted unpleasantly. My father had always been good at this part. Not prying me open or demanding vulnerability on command. Simply speaking in a way that reached me to my core.

Before I could answer, my phone rang. The sound cut cleanly through the quiet. Both of us looked down at my pocket at the same moment.

I took it out and saw the caller ID.

Payton & Wallace LLP

“It’s them,” I said.

My father’s face brightened at once with such uncomplicated pleasure that it almost made me laugh. “They work fast. Excellent, go on.”

I hesitated, glancing toward the parlor again.

He gave a small, dismissive motion. “Your mother has me. Take the call.” Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And try not to terrify the lawyers. They’ll bill more if they’re intimidated.”

“That would be unethical, wouldn’t it?” I stepped back toward the side office, and he turned for the parlor at the same time, hurrying in that unshowy way of his to the woman waiting inside. I watched him go, then I went into the office. It wasn’t grand by any means. All the room held was a desk, two chairs, and a narrow bookcase. But the windows overlooked the gardens my mother loved so much.

I closed the door behind me and answered the call. “Rafe Virelli.”

A brisk, polished voice introduced herself as Moira Bennett from Payton & Wallace. She thanked me for my patience, said they had reviewed the preliminary information I’d brought over, and that the firm was very interested in discussing the matter in more detail.

“Would you be available to come in for a meeting this week?”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

She suggested a time. I accepted it. There was a brief exchange of logistics, names, and a promise that someone from the firm would send over the formal confirmation and intake details within the hour.

When the call ended, I set the phone down on the desk and let out a strained breath.

It was only a meeting. A first conversation. Arguments had yet to be made. Nothing had been recovered. Nothing had been returned. No family history had risen obligingly from ash because I’d finally decided to reach for it.

And yet…

For the first time in years, the thing I wanted no longer felt like a private ache I’d been slowly circling with no progress. It had become forward movement. A formal and expensive movement, perhaps, but movement all the same.

One step, I thought, looking out the window at the grounds below. One step down at the start of a very long road.

Still, it was a large one.

I opened the email confirmation they had already forwarded when I heard my mother’s laugh, followed by my father’s lower voice answering her.

The sound steadied me.

Then I went back to work.

4

QUINN

PASS AUF, NOT PISS OFF

The hot dog cart on the corner of Eighth and Twenty-Third was one of the few places in Manhattan where I felt both known and entirely unjudged, which was a powerful combination and, frankly, should’ve cost more than four dollars.

Max and I stopped there every couple of weeks. The cart itself was chrome in theory and grease-seasoned in practice, the umbrella sun-faded, and the smell rising off it was all grilled onions, hot metal, mustard, steam, a faint halo of pretzel salt. New York in edible form.