Page 66 of Carved Obsession

“We’re on!” I announce, ending the call and slamming the laptop shut.

I hide it in its case under the seat, pull my gloves on, strap on the hip pack with all my tools and the phone, double-check my hair is in place, and climb out of the car. There’s such a spring in my step that my grin hurts my face, and Dad’s shaking his head as he follows.

“Ten minutes, old man. Ten minutes,” I say over my shoulder as I push back the ivy that has started growing over the garden gate. It covers the access pad now.

“Time starts now,” he says as I connect my modified keypad reader to the device.

I count the seconds in my head, cracking my neck as I wait for the numbers to be revealed.

Finally!

I could scream in excitement, but I quickly punch in the revealed numbers and crack open the gate.

Hiding in the shadows of the trees, I sprint through the estate’s sprawling garden on light feet. I’ve done this so many times, it’s second nature to move like I’m gliding over the ground. I have the back door unlocked and my lock picks back in the hip pack before Dad reaches me. I remove my shoes and hand them to him.

We step into the house, listening for a few seconds before I make a beeline to the other side and straight into Wayne’s office. As planned, Dad waits by the basement access, just in case the owner’s activities finish earlier than planned.

I cross through the atmospherically lit hallway, through too many formal rooms I bet no one in this house uses, and reach the office. As slowly as I possibly can, I crack open the heavy padded wooden door and walk into the dark space. The moon is on the other side of the house, so it’s pitch black here and I can’t see a fucking thing.

Be patient, Scarlet. Breathe.

Patience is not my fucking virtue. It never has been. Manic is more my jam. But I force myself.

Breathing in slowly, eyes aimed at the darkest corner of this room, I count to six, my gaze adjusting to the new conditions.

I know what to expect here—a trigger in the bookcase, which opens a heavy metal door to a panic room. The challenge is opening that without making any noise.

I find the right book after three tries, and something clicks.

Fuck, that was loud.

Pressing my hand to my hip pack, I wait for a vibration from my phone, but nothing comes. I let out a relieved breath and slip my fingers into the small crack behind the bookcase, slowly sliding the heavy door open.

My fingers itch to pull faster, but I can’t rush this.

Eventually, the gap is big enough for me to slip through, and right there, on a fucking marble pedestal, laid on a delicate metal stand in the center of the back wall, sits my target.

Christ, that dagger is beautiful.

The long, slim blade carved from ivory is set in a pale gold hilt sculpted in the shape of a human spine. The hilt curves at the end, where a blood-red ruby is set. The sacrificial dagger was made to hurt the person who clutched it, thus symbolizing the price the soul pays for taking a life.

There’s something disturbingly pure about that.

I walk over to the pedestal, inspecting all around it to make sure there’s no trap. In all my research over the last weeks, nothing was revealed, but I have to make sure.

I find nothing.

Wayne certainly didn’t expect anyone would break into his house to steal it, which is surprising, since he bragged to all the wrong people about getting his hands on the artifact.

I grab the dagger, smiling when the slightly sharpened vertebra of the gold spine digs into my palm. What an odd feeling. Satisfying, somehow.

As quickly as possible, I walk out, close the heavy door behind me, and make sure everything is exactly as it was when I came in. On hurried steps, almost tiptoeing in my soft socks over the wooden floor, I head back through the oversized, dimly lit spaces until I reach Dad again.

“Eight minutes,” he whispers.

“Better not slow me down, then.” I wiggle my eyebrows as I beckon him back the way we came.

The adrenaline rush hits like lightning in a warm summer storm, and I’m skipping and pirouetting my way through the shadows of the adolescent trees scattered through the garden.