Page 35 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“She’s on the team,” he said.

James blinked. “Mr. Virelli⁠—”

“She returned the first missing piece to me,” he said. “I assume that merits at least observational access.”

Helena’s eyes moved to mine, then to his, and I watched her come to the decision that a paying client with a specific preference for one intern wasn’t the hill she intended to die on before lunch.

“That can be arranged,” she said.

“Good.”

He held his hand out to me, palm open.

I stared at it.

He stared back.

It took me one full, embarrassing second to realize he wasn’t seeking further dramatic hand clasping. He wanted the necklace.

Right.

Of course.

“Sorry,” I said, reaching for the clasp. “That was… yes. Obviously.”

My fingers fumbled, because apparently composure had decided it had done enough for the morning. Then the chain came free. As I removed the necklace, my skin suddenly felt naked. Swallowing, I laid it in his palm.

His fingers closed around the pendant, and some of the violence went out of his face, showing what was underneath.

Relief, maybe. Grief. Recognition so intense it bordered on pain.

He looked down at the coin in his hand.

Then, with a short breath that might have been a laugh in a less disciplined man, he said to James and Helena, “Congratulations. You’ve already resolved one fifth of my case.”

That got an actual smile out of Moira.

Mr. Virelli glanced at me once more. “Let us hope you prove to be equally efficient with the rest.”

I stood there, bare-necked, breathing a little too fast, while everyone else started moving again.

Marvin was gaping at me, a little shocked, a little awed.

Devon leaned in and whispered, “What the hell?”

Still looking at the dragon, I whispered back, “Professionally? I think I’m having a great day.”

James Payton’s office was larger than my entire apartment and somehow less personal than my toaster.

That was my first thought as I sat in one of the leather guest chairs, trying to look appropriately chastened while every cell in my body continued to dance.

The office had views. Cinematic, Manhattan-was-built-to-impress-you views. The kind that made you understand why rich people became convinced God especially liked them. The art on the walls was almost certainly expensive and even more certainly chosen by someone who billed by the hour for curation. The desk was massive, dark wood polished to a mirror shine, and almost completely empty except for a laptop, a legal pad, and a crystal dish holding paper clips.

James Payton stood with both hands braced on the back of his chair, looking down at me as though trying to decide whether I was a liability, a prodigy, or a migraine that had passed the bar.

“What,” he said at last, with terrible calm, “possessed you?”

I folded my hands in my lap so I would not accidentally gesture too enthusiastically and make things worse. “I understand it was inappropriate.”