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If it seems too good to be true, then it probably is.
That’s what Pops always says. Someone brings him a heavy gold necklace or luxury watch, and is willing to let it go at a bargain-basement price, you can bet it’s either stolen or fake. He says if anyone owned these items outright and knew their worth, they’d never pawn them for the pennies on the dollar they’re willing to walk away with.
Yes, my father is careful who he deals with, having learned the hard way. He used to accept most anything that came his way, but after getting in trouble for it, he got more particular.
I know it bummed him out, because he made a lot of money off those things. He didn’t care whether they’d been stolen. In fact, I think he still does fence stolen goods from time to time. He just keeps them hidden in the back, where the authorities are least likely to look.
What can I say. My father’s ethics, or lack of them, seldom get in the way of his making a buck.
But they’d never caused him to be lying on the floor of the shop, bloody and moaning either.
“What’s going on—” I start to say, Lily yelling the same in the background over our long-distance call.
“Charleigh?” she screams through the phone. “Charleigh—"
I squeeze my eyes shut and wish she were here. She always knows what to do. She always protected Evie and me. That’s why she feels so guilty about leaving us to go to New York.
But before I can make sense of Pops’s blood and respond to my sister, the phone is snatched right out of my hand.
* * *
CHAPTERTWO
Charleigh
“Hey—” I yell, whipping around and attempting to grab the phone back before I even see who took it.
“Quiet,” a voice growls.
I glance up to see a man with a crooked nose and shaved head. He looks familiar. His blue eyes narrow, and his lips press together tightly, reinforcing his stern expression. He’s in control. Confident to the point of arrogance.
What the hell?
Do I know this guy? It seems impossible—how could our lives ever intersect? And yet, I swear I know his face.
I tear my gaze from the man to my bleeding father, and as if I were looking through a thick fog, I scan the shop trying to figure out what’s going on. The strange thing is, I can barely see anything. I’m on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack, my brain overloaded by my surroundings. Nothing makes sense. The kid who was trying out the trombone, whose racket sent me to escape to the bathroom, is nowhere to be seen. In his place are three men in suits, as if he has grown taller and multiplied.
Through the blur, I see the men are somber. Unsmiling. The kind you don’t mess with.
You don’t grow up around a pawn shop and not developsomestreet smarts.
As my vision clears, I realize they’re staring atme.
These guys haven’t happened by for a friendlyhello. Or to sell something they found in their grandmother’s basement, which they hope is worth more than most of the junk here.
These guys could be anybody. Pops does business with lots of people. Although I’ve never seen anyone hurt him.
I can guess they’re not from the city or county government, come to check that Pops isn’t selling stolen goods again. Those men don’t dress nearly as nicely, nor are they as good looking as these three.
I might be frightened, but I still notice certain things.
Like these men, who look like they could grace the cover ofGQ.
No, they’re not here to sell or buy. I’m sure of that. Aside from their handsome but hard, stern faces, they wear the most perfect suits I’ve ever seen. Not a single wrinkle, crease, or fluff of lint to be found. Crisp white shirts and ties of thick, sturdy silk. Unscuffed black shoes.
People like this do not come to pawn shops.
Are they holding Pops up? Pawn shops keep lots of cash. I know this because many times over the years Pops has had me go to the bank to make a deposit. That is, a deposit of the cash he was willing to claim on his taxes. The rest of it goes in a safe in the back, hidden behind a false wall.
