“I was just telling the rest of the team about Sam’s new position here at Codex,” Abe said. “He’ll be consulting on cases for a few weeks. In the field, when he can be.”
A smirk tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth. My cheeks flushed hotter.
No. Not a mirage.
This was a fucking nightmare.
Henry picked up the box and flipped the top open, releasing the tantalizing scent of fresh-baked cinnamon and sugar. “You two went to school together?” he said, ignoring our attempts to murder each other with our eyes.
Delilah took hold of my wrist, tugging me next to her on the couch and placing a donut in my hand. My gaze was still leashed to Sam’s—a nonverbal duel I was unwilling to lose.
“We, uh…” Sam started. “Freya and I went to Princeton together.”
He broke our stare down first. Point for Freya.
“I didn’t know that,” Abe said, forehead pinched.
“Not that many people do,” I said. “Sam and I had the misfortune of running our campus’s Criminology Club together. When we weren’t stuck in all of the same classes.”
We’d competed against each other for club president so viciously our classmates assumed we shared political aspirations. We didn’t. Our shared aspiration was winning.
“Our glorious leader does know that Sam and I spent four months together at Quantico before I dropped out.” I leveled Abe with a searing glance. His hands went up in surrender—then paused to pick an imaginary speck of lint from his pristine suit. “Funny you forgot to mention to either of us we’d be working together.”
“Didn’t see the need,” he said airily. “And besides, I would have hired Samuel whether you liked it or not.”
“Well, it’s certainly fine by me, sir,” Sam said, jaw clamped tight.
“And me as well,” I said swiftly. I avoided Delilah’s bemused expression—worried I’d crack beneath the pressure of it. My best friend still carried the bloodhound instincts that had made her such a remarkable police detective. Later, she’d be grilling me like I was a hostile suspect.
“Moving on,” Abe said, “there is one more piece to this situation that I have kept from the three of you. I taught Sam at Quantico, along with Freya. We worked together in the Art Theft unit my last year with the Bureau before I left to found Codex. As I was leaving, Sam agreed to bend a few rules to keep me apprised of what was going on in the world of rare book theft.” He nodded at Sam. “You technically all know Sam as my contact at the FBI.”
My blood chilled. Abe’s connection to the FBI was a legal gray area that Codex cheerfully operated in. There were certain things private detectives couldn’t pursue; we were paid by clients to retrieve stolen goods, not to bring criminals to justice. But if we stumbled into anything illegal we made sure to document it for Abe’s contact. It was a two-way relationship—sometimes when the FBI was stuck on a case, they shared details with us too.
Anything to get the damn book back, as Abe would say. And apparently that contact had always been Sam.
“Seems like we’ve been working together for a while now, Evandale,” Sam said. His blue eyes were dark, confident.
“Seems like we have,” I said, silently fuming.
“It makes Sam’s role as consultant an even better fit, given he’s been supplying vital information for some of our cases the past three years,” Abe said.
I narrowed my gaze at my boss—and he replied by holding out a second donut on a plate. “I know you take bribes in the form of cinnamon and sugar.”
I took the plate slowly, not sure if I was in the forgiving mood yet. My brain couldn’t process this new, glaring reality—the man I used to compete with all through school and during my training was suddenly sitting in the Codex office like he’d always worked here.
I felt like a college freshman again, instantly trying to prove myself.
How was that possible?
And worse, in the seven years since I’d washed out of Quantico, I’d ceased being a rising star. I was sitting next to a badass police officer, a rare book librarian who spoke four languages, and a former FBI agent so supremely talented that his leaving to start a private firm sent shockwaves through the industry.
Oh, and Sam, a highly trained and decorated federal agent.
Me? I was a glorified computer nerd with a love for wizards and baked goods.
“So now that we’re all on the same page,” Abe continued, “let’s get to work. I want our focus to be getting Sam up to speed on any open cases and figuring out how we’re going to work the book festival opening tomorrow. I want strategies.” He looked right at me. “And later, I want a summary from you of the new code words you mentioned.”
Sam’s stare slid my way, curious.
“And I want the two of you partnered on the next case we catch.”
I shook off the fog of Byrne’s irritating good looks. “What? Me and Delilah?”
“No. You and Sam.”
“You’re joking,” I sputtered.
Abe flashed a rare grin. “Come now. Have you ever known me to tell a joke? The two of you were expert partners at the academy. There should be no problem here, correct?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, if I may—”
“We’ll probably kill each—”
Abe held up a palm. “Scratch that. I wasn’t actually asking for anyone’s opinions. The next case that walks through those doors will be handled by the two of you. Together.”
The first day I met Sam, I was instantly wary of the arrogant jock who swore he knew everything there was to know about fighting crime. We were only eighteen, but he was already confident. Brash. Brilliant.
And fucking hot.
That first day we met, every brain cell had flashed the same word, over and over. Now, against my better judgment, I allowed my gaze to land back on Byrne’s. And there went my brain cells, agitated with a threat I thought I’d never see again, declaring the presence of my sworn adversary and all that he represented.
Danger, danger, danger.
3
Freya
My cursor hovered over a phrase that lacked gravitas but piqued my interest: We’re certainly looking forward to having an empty house this weekend.
It was probably a banal discussion of weekend plans, the type of thing work colleagues mutter to each other as they walk out of the office.
But I was pretty sure it was a fucking code phrase.
For the past three years, I’d worked as Codex’s resident computer nerd, using my skills to track down stolen manuscripts online. And the majority of that work consisted of using a website called Under the Rose. On its surface, it was a legal marketplace for private sellers and private buyers—they discussed gilded edges, conservation techniques, light restrictions for vellum pages. Using one of my many fake avatars, I witnessed sales of maps, books, letters, and illustrations.
Beneath the legal exterior was a murky world of thieves.
The world of antiquities was one of academic glamour and wealthy privilege. It was a world that operated on trust and handshakes and a shared passion for rarity. Which allowed a devious underworld to flourish, especially online. Identities could be hidden or forged, relationships were transactional, and bank accounts were difficult to trace.
Last year, I’d discovered a secret barrier on the Under the Rose site. A way for buyers and sellers to virtually wink.
Didn’t I once meet you at Reichenbach Falls? It was a Sherlock Holmes reference and not a well-known one. If the person replied “yes” then they could be trusted with an item that had been stolen. If they said “what the fuck is that?” then you moved on. Victoria Whitney—who’d been caught red-handed by Henry and Delilah—had responded to that code. As had her frenemy, Bitzi Peterson, and their co-conspirator, Alistair Chance.
We believed Bernard Allerton to be the original purveyor of this code.
Except now, I was convinced I’d found another one.
The next level of crook
s.
“Thought I’d catch you here.”
Delilah slid into the chair next to mine, gripping a mug of steaming tea. She’d found me at the True Hearts coffee shop—my favorite place in Philly to enjoy a dog-eared book and Earl Grey tea on rainy days. Sunny days too.
“Officer Barrett,” I teased. “Come to interrogate me?”
She shrugged an elegant shoulder, but her lips raised in a smile. “Figured you might like a little help on the summary you’re working on for Abe. I’m curious about what kept you up all night.”
I was comforted by her presence. Delilah was my best friend, my favorite stakeout buddy, and my daily hero. She was a beautiful badass—and watching her fall for Henry (and plan their wedding) had been too precious for words. But I also liked having her analytical brain when I was throwing out theories, seeing what might stick.
“And you’re not here to ask me about Samuel Byrne, right?”
“I mean, if he comes up.”
I bit my lip, knew I couldn’t avoid it. I’d left Codex a few hours ago—Sam had been deep in discussion with the rest of the team, and I was in desperate need of space. Everywhere I looked, his big, muscular body was crowding our tiny office. And every time I heard that gravelly voice, I kept tumbling back into memories I’d rather forget. Today was the third time I’d walked into a room and been shocked by the presence of Sam Byrne. It was some cosmic pattern I couldn’t break. The first was day one at Princeton, when his arrogance, paired with his too-handsome-face, was immediately aggravating.
The second time was day one at Quantico. I was 25, and three years had passed since I’d last seen Byrne at our Princeton graduation. Most people intent on being accepted to the FBI’s training academy spent a few years working in the field of criminal justice, which I’d done. And I knew about Sam’s FBI aspirations, knew his father was a high-ranking official for the Bureau who expected his son to follow in his footsteps. I just didn’t expect to walk into class and bump into Sam’s giant chest.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he’d said with a full-on glare. I’d merely gawked, slack-jawed. Stunned into a rare silence. And then I was furious. Of course, there were only two seats left in the auditorium that day. Two seats next to each other. Which he and I had slunk into, heads down, then spent the entire class whisper-bickering with each other. As if those three years hadn’t passed at all.
Delilah prodded me with her finger. “Earth to Frey.”
I blinked, sighed. “If you let me babble on about my half-baked ideas, I’ll let you ask one question about Codex’s newest consultant.”
“Deal,” she said. She clinked our mugs together and settled back into her chair. “What’s the hot gossip from Under the Rose?”
I turned my screen to face her—the website itself was innocuous. It operated like Craigslist for rare books, with subgroups and the ability to direct message buyers and sellers.
“Do the names Julian King or Birdie Barnes mean anything to you?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ve been fucking around in these different subgroups, learning their language. Seeing if any trends appear that Codex should be aware of. Searching for patterns.” I clicked, opening a screen where the discussion revolved around rare letters.
“Julian King and Birdie Barnes run King Barnes Rare Books in San Francisco. They’re always on this site selling extremely rare first editions, usually signed. Big-ass price tags.”
She cocked her head at that. “How much?”
“Half a million dollars. A million. Obviously, the transactions happen separately, but the price tags and the quality of the items sparked my attention.”
“Legal though, right?”
I fiddled with my bun, pressing wayward strands back into formation. “I think so? They claim to have letters of authentication, but we both know that can be bullshit. The thing about these two is they’re like…rock stars. The Beatles of rare books. They’re being virtually fawned over left and right, although not a single picture of them exists online. Nor permanent records, and I searched all night. Website and social media pages are bare of any identifying information, although they appear to be crazy active.”
Delilah sipped her tea. “Sounds like something a criminal would do, doesn’t it?”
I leaned forward. “That’s what I’m thinking. These two are shady as hell, so I’ve been tracking who they’re talking to, who they seem close to. Right now, it’s a couple named Thomas and Cora Alexander.”
“I do know them, actually,” she said. “They’ve got an antiques collection that rivals Victoria’s. Manhattanites with a penthouse overlooking Central Park. They’re on Henry’s shortlist of suspicious rich people that live on the East Coast.”
“Wait, really?” I asked, the wheels of my brain spinning faster.
“Really,” she promised. “The presence of the Alexanders plus shady booksellers is an interesting combination.”
I shoved up the sleeves of my oversized sweater. Tapped on the screen. “This group right here, the ones chatting about rare letters, they’re using code words when they speak to each other.” I scrolled through for Del, pointing out all the times they’d sprinkled the phrase house and empty house throughout their frequent messages. “It’s a subtle pattern but…I don’t know, it’s setting off alarm bells for me.”
She hummed a little, eyes scanning the screen. “People talk about their houses. Sounds innocent, Frey. Right?”
“I don’t think it is, actually,” I said. “I need to tell Abe about it. See if I can’t dig deeper and get to know the people in this group.”
“Do it,” Delilah said. “I trust you and your computer genius.”
“Who’s gonna make the office memes, if not me?”
“What you do is more than that, and you know it,” she said softly—she was always calling me out over our mugs of tea. “I think you’ll do great going undercover with Sam, should the occasion arise.”
“Sneaky bitch,” I smirked. “Is this your one question about our new consultant?”
I was almost grateful for the redirect. Admitting my fears and anxieties about going undercover wasn’t something I was ready to do. Especially not to a woman who was so damn good at it.
She tapped her chin. “Actually, no. I want to know if Sam was the man that changed you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Delilah set her mug down. “The night at the Copernicus exhibit, when I told you I had fallen in love with Henry, you told me you’d had an enemy at Quantico that you hated. That the feeling was so strong it changed you. Is that Sam?”
I sputtered through a startled laugh. “I must have been off my rocker, Del. Yes, Sam Byrne is the man I was talking about. But he didn’t change me one bit. The only purpose that smug asshole serves on this planet is to compete with me constantly. And piss me off. Sam’s a robot workaholic with no capacity for humor or joy. I’m not entirely sure why he’s here in Philly, but the sooner he leaves, the better.”
Her blue eyes danced with intrigue. “And you don’t love him?”
“Byrne?”
She was silent, letting me dangle.
“Is this how you used to get people to confess, Officer?”
She smirked. “Okay, you do love him.”
I balled up my napkin and threw it at her face.
She swatted it away with nimble reflexes. “And you definitely want to kiss him.”
“Please.” My palms were now sweating. “I’d rather French kiss a cactus.”
She didn’t need to know about the four straight months of late-night study sessions Sam and I had undertaken together. We were the top students at the FBI’s training academy—which meant we were always the two students left in the library. Always alone. Competing constantly and under enormous stress. Bickering.
And it used to make me stupid horny.
When Sam wasn’t looking, I’d stare at the lock of hair falling across his forehead, the stretch of his wor
n Princeton sweatshirt over those magnificent shoulders. I’d get caught in a looping fantasy—of shoving the notebooks and pens and highlighters off our long table and dragging Sam onto it. Wondering what would happen if I pushed my serious, honorable rival to take out his study stress on my very willing body.
“You’re thinking about having sex with Sam right now, aren’t you?” Delilah’s voice was annoyingly smug.
I tapped my computer screen. “I’m thinking about our thieves, thank you very much.”
Delilah Barrett crossed her arms with a secretive smile. “And you need to work on making your lies more convincing.”
4
Sam
The faster I ran, the less I panicked.
Outside the windows of the gym, dawn was breaking over my Philadelphia hotel. This standard “fitness center” looked exactly like my gym back in Virginia. My hotel room felt less sterile than the white, unadorned walls of my apartment. When you lived your life in service to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, having a personal life was a luxury. Enjoying your own home was a luxury. Goddamn sleep was a luxury. After a twelve-hour day, my only cure for the heavy exhaustion was forcing my way through grueling workouts. More miles, more weights, more sweat. After, I enjoyed the briefest respite from the anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in my chest.
By morning, however, it inevitably roared back with the ferocity of a lion, suddenly uncaged. And that was only if I was lucky enough to sleep through the night.
I reached down and increased the speed on the treadmill.
I was heading into my second day at Codex and didn’t need to bring the remnants of my incident into Abe’s well-run operation. And I definitely didn’t want Freya fucking Evandale to know about my newest vulnerability.
My cell phone rang, and I touched my earbuds, answering a call from the Deputy Director. I hadn’t called him “dad” in a decade.
“OPR informed me that they’ve gathered everything they need to reach a decision on their investigation.” My father’s tone was clipped regardless of the hour of the day. He also hadn’t formally greeted me in a decade either—that wasn’t the parenting style of Andrew Byrne.
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