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“Molly, your eyes are open and you’re speaking, but I think you’re asleep. You’re not making sense, that’s for sure,” says Juan as he stands in the living room, looking down at me at 5:00 a.m .

I’m wrapped in Gran’s quilt on the sofa, cradling her diary like a baby. My eyes are puffy, and I haven’t slept a wink. I know I sound like a lunatic. “I’m wide awake, Juan. I promise you,” I say. “I’ve read every word that Gran wrote. This diary is the answer to everything.”

“Okay,” says Juan. “Explain.”

He sits down beside me. He scratches his bedhead, which is crested like a rooster’s coxcomb. I recount in short form everything I’ve just read about Gran’s early life—how she grew up surrounded by wealth and privilege, yet the opulent manor she lived in was never a warm home. I tell him about her parents, how cruel they could be, how love meant so little to them that they’d even sacrifice their own daughter for financial gain. I introduce him to dear Mrs.Mead, my great-gran-dad’s sister, a mother to so many, a woman who died too young. And I tell him about my gran-dad, too, who appears on almost every page.

“It’s a love story like no other,” I say. “When you read this, you’ll see Mr.Preston in a different light. He loved Flora with his whole heart, and she loved him with all of hers.”

“Molly, that’s nice,” says Juan. “But what does any of that have to do with the Fabergé?”

“Gran was never a thief,” I say. “Anything she took was hers by right. I know that for a fact.”

“Molly,” Juan says as he grabs my hand. “What about the golden huevo ?”

I tell him about the Fabergé, how it was given to Gran as an engagement gift, hers and hers alone. I reveal all the pressure put on her to marry Algernon—a fly-by-night, a thief, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and many things even worse. I explain the intricacies, the complications, the dropped clues that Gran wouldn’t have known she was dropping, for she had no idea that the egg would one day find its way back to me, that I would hold it in my hands and keep it on a shelf in her curio cabinet—her history twinkling before my very eyes.

Juan is looking at me like I’ve truly lost the thread. “Café?” he offers. “I think you need some.”

“Please,” I say. “Hear me out.”

He nods and refocuses, trying to put the pieces together.

I recount Gran’s journey after she left the manor, connecting the dots to what must have transpired, leading all the way to her curio cabinet in this apartment.

“Sometimes, it’s not what’s on the page that tells you the most, it’s the blank space in the margins—like the outline at the scene of a crime that proves a body was once there even well after it’s gone.”

I reach for my phone on the side table. I dial a number.

“Who on earth are you calling?” Juan asks. “It’s just after 5:00 a.m. ”

“Detective Stark,” I reply. “She has to hear this.”

“Now?” says Juan.

“As Gran would say, there’s no time like the present. ”

—

Juan makes some coffee and brings out a tray with crumpets, honey, and jam. He puts the spread on the living room table beside Gran’s diary. “The detective should be here any minute,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “And the others.”

After trying—and failing—to explain to Juan everything I learned from Gran’s diary, I made a series of calls, first to Detective Stark, then to my gran-dad, and finally, to Angela.

As usual, Angela’s was the most colorful response. “For the love of ducks, it’s still dark out, Molly. You need me to come over now ?”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “But the detective’s on her way. She was very interested in what I told her on the phone.”

“I’ll be there. But there better be coffee.”

Now, I’m pacing in the living room, thinking about how I’ll explain it to everyone when they arrive.

There’s a knock on the door. I rush to the peephole and see my gran-dad looking as bleary-eyed as I feel. The second he enters, I rush at him, hugging him as tight as I can.

“Good heavens, Molly,” he says from the midst of my full-body grip. “What’s all this?”

“You loved her so much,” I say, squeezing him even harder.

“Your gran? Of course I did,” he says as he tries, unsuccessfully, to free himself from my grip. “But you knew that.”

“Not the way I do now,” I say. “Her diary. It’s a tell-all. And you—you kept so many secrets!”

“I did not,” he says.

“You and Gran came from totally different worlds. You were set to go to university. Your father was a butler.”

“But I’ve told you those things before,” he says.

He’s right. He has. And yet that only proves you can know something—it can be staring you right in the face—and the deeper meaning can escape you entirely.

“Your aunt, Mrs.Mead, she died a tragic death. This Claddagh ring,” I say, pointing to it on my finger, “it was hers before it was Gran’s. Your father, William Preston—a.k.a. Uncle Willy—he was my great-grandfather’s butler!”

“All true,” says my gran-dad. “I suppose I never shared those particular details. Didn’t see the point. Like your gran used to say, it’s all water under the bridge. ”

“She loved you with her entire being,” I say. “She really did.”

“Molly,” Juan says, “if you don’t let go of Mr.Preston soon, he’s going to lose circulation.”

“Sorry,” I say, releasing him. “I’ve had quite a night. I feel like I’m seeing for the very first time.”

“Molly, you said on the phone that you know more about the egg,” says Gran-dad.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

“Hello? Can we come in? And if you hug me like that, I swear I’ll scream blue murder,” Angela warns. She and Detective Stark are standing behind my gran-dad. Angela looks like the Bride of Frankenstein, her red hair in statically charged disarray. Detective Stark is wearing a tracksuit, her hoodie pulled over her head. They both appear barely conscious, though they’ve certainly had more sleep than I have.

“Come in,” I say. “I know it’s early.”

“This better be good, Molly,” says Stark.

“Have a seat,” says Juan after he wipes down everyone’s shoes and stores them neatly in the front closet.

We gather in the living room, and I wait until everyone has coffee before speaking. “Thanks to Gran’s diary,” I say, as I hold it in my hands, “I’ve deduced a string of crucial clues that connects us to the culprits who stole the egg,” I say.

“And who are they?” Stark asks.

“To figure that out, you have to follow the trail.”

“Great,” says Stark. “A six a.m . treasure hunt.”

“The Bees are connected,” I say. “But the question is how and to what end. When she was young, my gran was about to marry into a wealthy family firm. The husband and wife, Magnus and Priscilla Braun, dealt in art,” I say. “Isn’t that right, Gran-dad?”

“Not exactly,” he replies. “They were certainly wealthy, but theirs was an investment firm.”

“At first,” I say, “but at some point, that changed. They were definitely art collectors.” I find the entry in Gran’s diary where she talks about visiting the Braun household, going from room to room full of priceless antiquities. I pass the diary to Gran-dad.

“I never stepped foot in the Braun mansion. I had no idea Priscilla Braun was an art collector,” he says as he passes the diary to Detective Stark.

“And their last name—Braun,” I say. “Gran-dad, did you never connect it to the Bees?”

“Why would I?” he asks.

“Braun means Brown,” I say. “It’s the same name.”

“And the easiest thing for a family of pedigree is to modify their last name—especially if they were trying to hide something,” says Stark.

“Now look at this,” I say as I take back the diary in my shaking hands. I flip through it to find the entry where Algernon admits to Gran that the egg was stolen by father and son. I read Algernon’s chilling words out loud—“?‘What we want, we take.’ And see here?” I add. “Gran asked her fiancé about a baron who Magnus Braun was about to go into business with before getting cozy with us Grays. A baron, ” I say, waiting for someone to connect the dots.

“Beagle’s grandfather was a baron,” Juan says.

“That portrait in their office. The baron died a year ago,” Angela adds.

“Touché,” I reply.

“Show me where Baron Beagle is named,” Detective Stark says, putting down her coffee for the first time.

“I can’t,” I say. “Because Gran doesn’t name him, not specifically, but a couple of times, she references a baron who was an art dealer. Her parents knew him. The baron and baroness came to a ball at Gray Manor.”

“Goodness,” says my gran-dad. “They did. The Workers’ Ball was a big to-do that year, because Magnus Braun and a baron were in attendance.”

“But was the baron a Beagle?” Stark asks. “Did you meet him, Mr.Preston?”

“Me? Meet the baron?” Gran-dad says. “I was a fill-in footman. The Grays would never have introduced me to someone of such high status. Plus, I had eyes for only one person that night.”

“My gran,” I say. “You danced with her. You fell into lock step.”

“Did she say that?” Gran-dad asks, his eyes glassy when they meet mine.

“She did,” I reply.

“Mr.Preston, I didn’t know you danced,” says Juan.

“Another well-kept secret,” I reply.

“Please, can we keep this moving?” Stark asks. “Molly, what you’re saying is that your grandmother was connected to both the Braun and Beagle families via the egg. And, Mr.Preston, you never knew about that?”

“I had no idea. The Brauns were dubious, though,” he replies. “And years ago, when I worked as a gatekeeper for the Grimthorpes, I never saw the egg because I was never allowed in the mansion. The first time I laid eyes on the thing was in that curio cabinet after Molly brought it here one day. And the only Fabergé Flora ever referenced was her bank account.”

“Our joint savings,” I say. “She always called it the ‘Fabergé.’?”

“Coincidence?” Angela asks.

“Probably not,” says Stark.

“If the Bees have a legit claim on the egg, why didn’t they just say so when it first appeared on their show?” Juan asks.

“Because they’re hiding something,” says Angela as her fiery hair sways.

“We should let the Bees read the diary entries and hear what they have to say,” I suggest.

“That’s exactly what we shouldn’t do,” Stark replies. “They may not deny the connection, but they won’t reveal the truth either. If we want to get to the bottom of this, we have to ambush them.”

“But how?” asks Gran-dad.

“A sting,” says Angela as she suddenly pops to her feet.

“Tell me more,” says Stark as she puts her coffee down.

“The note. It’s telling us what they want us to do,” says Angela. “We need to follow their advice. Molly needs to sell the egg.”

“I don’t understand,” Mr.Preston says.

“If the Bees are really behind the egg’s disappearance and return,” Angela explains, “we’ll only know why once there’s a winning bid on it. The second that egg is sold and the Bees are alone together, they’ll discuss their motives and their plans. If we’re listening in, we’ll piece it all together. We’ll know what they’ve been up to this whole time—and why.”

“Bingo,” says Juan.

“They know the hotel has no surveillance—‘guest privacy is paramount at the Regency Grand,’?” says Mr.Preston. “What if that’s why they insisted the auction happen there in the first place?”

“So no cameras could catch anything going on outside of the tearoom,” I add.

“Remember,” Angela says. “The Bees have no idea that we know they’re connected to all of this, which is why the plan only works if we keep that diary a secret.”

“It’s our ace in the hole,” says Stark.

“So we set up a ruse to make it appear that the egg has been bought by some big, rich collector,” says Angela.

“And we hold the auction at the hotel,” Stark adds, “but this time, we have hidden eyes and ears and cameras everywhere.”

“Mark my words, the second that auction is over, if we’re listening in and the Bees don’t know it, we’ll know what they’ve done,” Angela says.

“They won’t see it coming,” I add.

“But to do that, doesn’t Molly have to agree to sell the Fabergé?” asks Juan.

“Of course,” says Stark. “Molly, do you agree?”

“Agree to what exactly?” I ask.

“To stinging the bees,” says Angela.

“And to saying hasta luego to the golden huevo, ” says Juan.

“Molly, it’s worth a try,” says Detective Stark. “The only way to crack this egg is to sell it.”