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Mia

I am being watched. Though I’m used to it, I find it a tad unnerving while I’m eating my lunch. At work, no less. It happened yesterday and the day before, and it’ll happen tomorrow as well.

“May I help you, Liz?” I eye my assistant across the table, while taking a sip of my Vitamin Water. Yesterday, she was in awe of the way my strawberries were sliced. Looking at my lunch, I’d be lying if I say I’m not curious as to what she’s singled out today.

“Help? No—unless you want to meal prep for me the way you do for yourself…” She speaks around a bite of her utilitarian peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ah, interesting…nothing distinct to point out, then. “But—” she continues, “how do you make stuff like that ,” she stresses, pointing to my baby carrots and itty-bitty reusable container I have filled with ranch, “look so appealing?”

I gaze at the last vegetable that is sliced like a coin with little notches around the edges removed, creating a pretty little carrot flower.

“Liz, you know that food presentation is my outlet. You like thousand-piece puzzles, I make food art. How’s your PB the thin sheet’s design was intricately hammered from behind, creating the images in relief on the front. And to most, the double punched holes on the left and right sides go unnoticed as the point where a textile band would be attached, creating the headpiece.

The craftsmanship is sublime. I’ve viewed this sheet many times before, but the intricacy and the story telling—all done by hand without modern tools—just never gets old. It’s like feasting your eyes upon one of many painted limestone scenes in the mastaba of Ti in Egypt or the dizzying narrative winding its way around Trajan’s Column…simply put, you’re in awe. Or at least, I am.

I twist at the waist, about to put the priceless piece in its foam housing for the next twenty-four months.

“Are you getting all googly-eyed at the pretty, shiny things again, boss?” Liz rips me out of my reverie, startling me. “I’m going to start calling you Magpie.”

“No…well, I mean yes.”

She squats next to me and settles back on her heels. “Well, I can tell you just got all hot and bothered by it.” Before she stands, Liz taps the gold chain that is attached to my readers, sending it swaying. I’m unbothered by it.

“Well, of course I am, and you should be too. Do me a favor and go through the records on this piece and see if the back has ever been scanned. I noticed a small inscription and I can’t remember if it’s been documented. I want to get this box finished, but don’t want to put the crown away unless we need to run digital scans and catalog it.”

I expect a bit of sarcasm from Liz, but she dutifully strolls off.

Carefully, I place it in the tray’s cavity, but don’t pack it securely. I’m able to complete the rest of the packing of the jewelry while Liz looks for confirmation.

With a satisfying chuffing sound, I slide the last box on the flatbed dolly, ready to be taken below. And just in time, too.

Heading to my office, I scan through my emails on my phone, knowing that my morning will be filled with at least an hour of just responding to them.

I glance up when I see Liz blowing a bubble from her gum.

“The back was digitally scanned when the piece was acquired back in 2017.” She pushes off the doorframe and enters my office.

“Ah, okay. Good,” I say to myself.

“Anything else…?” Her hands are shoved in the front pockets of her “artfully” torn jeans, and if I glance at her quickly, she could be Kurt Cobain’s twin. It’s a stark contrast to the pantsuit I’m wearing.

“Besides heading out, no.” I pull the blazer off my swivel chair and walk her out, making double sure to lock the door behind us. “Good work today, Liz. I appreciate it.”

The late September heat lingers in the city as we make our way down the front steps of the museum.

“Sure thing. See you in the morning.” She begins to head south when she turns and says, “If you feel generous enough to make me, oh, I don’t know…a SpongeBob out of raviolis or something, I wouldn’t say no…”

“Is that right?”

“Just sayin’…” Liz smiles to let me know she’s kidding. Or half kidding, at least.

I smile back at her, keeping the prospect of a custom lunch dubious. “Noted.” I know I don’t have ravioli at home, nor do I have the time this evening to make it to the market.

Ordinarily, I’d take my time walking through the park to catch my subway on Central Park West, but I promised my roommate I’d be home in time for our weekly girl’s dinner. So, I hail a taxi and err on cutting my commute by more than half the time.

She’s making her famous chicken parm. The imported Parmigiano-Reggiano I get from my favorite cheese monger makes my stomach growl.

“Have I ever told you how much I love this dish?” I praise on a sigh.

Ashlee, my roommate, raises her glass of wine in a mock salute. “Yeah. How could I not after almost twenty years as your best friend?” She has a point. Ashlee and I shared a dorm at Dartmouth where we became fast friends, and as it turns out, long-term friends, to boot.

“Touché.”

Using her spoon to twirl the spaghetti onto her forkful of cut chicken, Ashlee says, “As long as you keep providing the truffle brie from Murray’s on Bleecker, I think this relationship will work out just fine. Oh, and it totally helps that you’re wealthy.” She makes an exaggerated slurping noise as she cleans her tined utensil.

It is true. Though, it’s not something that I readily talk about, I come from a well-off financier family. When I turned twenty-one, my trust became available to me. I’m aware of how privileged and lucky I am. I don’t need to work, but my job is my passion.

I own my brownstone in the West Village. I’d bought it after moving to the city and did a complete renovation, gutting it from basement to attic. Each floor was once its own apartment, but I saw the potential to make the space my own and to restore the 1800’s building back to its historical grandeur.

Once Ash graduated with her BFA in visual arts and got hired as a film critic, the city didn’t offer much in the way of affordable housing for her. I had plenty of space that needed filling, and being a conscientious New Yorker, it was an easy decision to have her move in with me. I happily did all of the grocery shopping, and even though I was against it, Ashlee insisted on paying for the utilities. She refused to be a “free-loading moocher” as she put it. It didn’t stop her from adding expensive wine to the shopping list, however.

“Why haven’t we made this more than a weekly thing?” I ask. I enjoy cooking—SpongeBob request coming to the forefront of my thoughts—though it is more about presentation for me. Ash shines in the kitchen. If she hadn’t been so opiniated in the cinematic world, I would have paid for her culinary degree, no questions asked.

She snorts at me. “’Cause you’re super busy.”

“I am not,” I say defensively.

I recognize her rigid posture change, the tucking of her foot underneath her thigh, and the raising of her hand as her tried-and-true way of driving her point home. “First,” she starts, sticking her thumb out for the initial fact, “you’re a workaholic.”

“I—” My voice dies when she gives me a death glare. When Ash starts, it’s best to let her finish. It’s probably why she’s grown such a fierce reputation with her film critiques.

“Secondly, when you’re not working, you’re working …have you seen all these books?” she rhetorically says, sweeping her arm behind her where the built-ins house my treasured research tomes. “And thirdly, when you’re not making swans out of watermelons, you’re doing yoga. Honestly, I don’t know how you can put your body through that. Or your guts for that matter.”

“It helps with so much,” I protest, knowing that she despises physical exercise. “Mental clarity, strength and flexibility, and it increases body awareness.” I use my three fingers to check off my own points, mocking her.

“The only thing yoga would make my body aware of is how gassy it is. Seriously, how do you not fart in some of those poses?” She is absolutely serious.

“Diet.”

She opens her mouth, retort at the ready, but then thinks better of it. “Fair. I’ll give you that.” Waving an arm at me, she dismisses everything from the last forty seconds. “But seriously, if you want to do this more often, then make time.” Her delivery isn’t rude, but it’s firm.

“Okay,” I concede, pushing my empty plate forward and crossing my hands in its place, “how about every Tuesday and Friday?”

“Girl! You can’t help yourself, can you?” She slaps the table dramatically. I’d have flinched if I wasn’t expecting it. It’s her go-to move. “The letter for the day is brought to you by Ashlee, and it is ‘S’. Do you know what ‘S’ stands for? Spontaneity . I thought yoga was supposed to loosen you up a bit…instead of scheduling our time like a meeting, can we try and go a little more off the cuff?”

“You’re mean.” Of the two of us, Ashlee is certainly the free spirit. Flaxen, unruly curly hair couldn’t be more opposite to my stick-straight, dark mane. My height dwarfs her five foot-two stature. Where she’s saucy and short tempered, my rational and calm demeanor balance us out like the sweet and spicy chicken she made exactly a week ago.

So I like a little structure in my life…is that so bad? But I know she has a point, so, to make sure she knows I’m not actually hurt, I stick my tongue out. Maturity at its finest.

“I’m not mean, I’m pushy. Here,” she offers, “have some more wine.”

I already downed two glasses and it is a work night. Before I can place my hand over my stemware, Ashlee is emptying the contents of the bottle. I steel my spine in defiance. “You want spontaneous, then fine.” I upend my glass and glug the last bit of buttery chardonnay.

“Oh, shit! Chug! Chug! Chug!” She chants like an audience member on The Jerry Springer show. The encouragement takes me back to college instantly, where our Friday and Saturday nights would be spent much in the same way.

I raise my arms in triumph. Perhaps a little too fast; there’s a slight warming to my limbs that wasn’t there a second ago. They feel delayed in their motions.

“Alright there, slugger, whaddya say we take our nightcap to the roof? The sun should just about be going down and I don’t want to miss it. It’ll be snowing before we know it.”

Another thing about Ash, is she hates the snow. Which is really inconvenient for her, seeing as she lives in NYC. Perhaps the free rent helps to settle her distaste about the seasonal weather.

Together, she and I make quick work of the dishes, grab another bottle of wine from the cooler, and begin the trek up the three flights. The sliding glass door groans under my efforts to open it, but soon, we are seated comfortably in the cushioned wicker chairs.

“Dammit. We missed the sunset.” Ashlee rectifies her disappoint by pouring a heavy hand of Gewürztraminer.

“Oh, stop,” I tell her. “You still get all of the pretty pinks and purples in the sky.” I pause to take in the rooftop scene. Tops of high-rise buildings reflect the dying light, while the shaded sides are absorbed into the promise of nightfall. It’s truly beautiful here. The city lights become more prominent and soon we will be surrounded in darkness fully. Well, as much as we can be in a bustling city.

I feel myself unwinding from the day, my heart rate quieting from the climb of three stories, and the din of the city settles around me like a comforting shawl. When I think about it, I’m surrounded by eight million people here, and though the world that lies beyond this stretch of Manhattan is enormous, I’ve never experienced it. Going to college in New Hampshire was a big deal for me. I’ve always lived in the city. I’m a monogamous dweller, never moving further than a few miles from what is familiar and comforting to me.

I shake the notion away, wanting to be in the moment with Ashlee. She has an unfocused look on her face, gazing in a northwesterly direction. I know what she’s thinking.

“You really don’t think that Billy Joel lives in Hackensack, do you? He wasn’t even raised there.” It matters not that I bring up this sore subject with Ash. She is a self-proclaimed Billy Joel groupie in the furthest removed sense of the phrase. She’s only seen him in concert at the Garden once, and she’s never met him. But it has never quelled her absolute obsession with him or his music.

“I like to pretend he’s just across the Hudson. Seems a little more down to earth than his forty-nine-million-dollar mansion in Oyster Bay.”

It doesn’t surprise me she knows the worth of his Long Island home. She knows everything about him. She taps her phone and “Movin’ Out” begins.

Ash’s carefree nature is comforting. It’s fun to be around. Her forward and outgoing nature is something I live vicariously through, because it’s something I could never do on my own and be comfortable with. Does that make me boring and stuffy like someone who is purposely avoided? I don’t want to be that person. I want to be able to let loose and not care what others think so much. And maybe if I allowed myself that bit of slack, my experiences could be rich and vibrant.

Over the repetitive percussion of the song, I almost don’t hear my phone ring. Glancing at it, the screen says restricted . Usually, I won’t answer if the caller is unidentified, but then I remember that our new Associate Curator has moved here from Paris, and it could be her trying to call me after hours.

I motion to Ash to turn the volume down before I slide the screen open. “Hello?”

“Mia…?” The voice comes out desperate and strained. And male.

“…Dad?” Instantly, I stiffen in my seat. “What’s wrong?” The tiny hairs at the nape of my neck grow erect.

“I can’t talk long, sweetheart.” Someone in the background shouts, “Hurry it up!” There’s a smacking sound. “Listen to me, Mia…if anything happens to me…I want you to remember—” An audible scuffle is heard. “Remember the fun we had in September, December, and March.”

An abrasive noise causes me to pull the phone away from my ear. I see Ash in my peripheral looking concerned.

“Now that it’s established that this is Mia, you’re going to listen very carefully…” The audio scrambled voice comes through, causing my face to blanche. Ash takes my phone and presses the speaker button. “As you’ve heard, we have your father. And if you’d like him kept alive, you will do exactly as we say.” All the air in my lungs escapes in a mass exodus before the voice continues.

“I’m going to stop you right there, buddy,” Ashlee interrupts, and I’m too shaken to even tell her to stop. “How do we know you’re not some asshole that’s full of shit? I watch true crime shows, ya know.”

Coming to my senses, I have the wherewithal to take my phone out of her hand. “Please, let me speak to my dad,” I demand.

“You already did.” The force behind the voice causes me to flinch. “You have seven days to get us what we want. And if you fail to procure it, then he dies.”

I swallow, feeling like there’s a cotton ball at the back of my throat. “Procure…what?”

“The Love Cuff.”

…What?

Would it be worthwhile to play dumb, tell them I have no idea what he’s talking about, let alone that it will be impossible to find it? It may not even exist.

“We know that you’re very capable of finding it—in fact, you’re probably the only one who can. No authorities or he’ll be dead before you can even breathe his name. Seven days, Mia. We’ll contact you.”

The line goes dead before I can ask anything else or hear my poor father once more.

The fear makes itself known quickly. It trails down my spine like a bolt of lightning, leaving me buzzing and frozen all at once. I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not; succumbing to the limbo of numbness seems easier. Peaceful. But I can’t. I need to be present and vigilant, otherwise I could miss something vitally important. I can’t imagine anyone being wholly alert while ransom demands were being made. The words were individual daggers to my ears.

The implications settle around me like falling ash from a volcano. I could lose my dad. If I don’t comply with their wants, if I’m unable to find the cuff, his death will be on my conscience. How would I ever live with myself?

Across the way, someone flicks on an upstairs light.

Despite the commotion from the city, everything goes silent around me. The distorted, unnatural voice though, replays in my head, echoing throughout my skull.

“God, it pays to be poor,” Ash jokes. I shoot her a blank stare, unsure if I even hear her. “Right, sorry,” she says. “What the hell is this all about, Mia?”

“I don’t know.” My words are hollow to my own ears, and I quickly dial my dad. Straight to voicemail.

“What the fuck is a ‘Love Cuff’?” Ashlee’s confusion is warranted, but I don’t have the mental capacity to go into detail right now.

“A lost artifact. Very valuable.”

“I gathered as much… Do you know how batshit this is?” Ash is now pacing the rooftop, threatening to wear a line in the flooring. “And how dangerous , Mia? You’ll need protection. You can’t go searching for something without someone covering your ass.”

I join her in her pacing, trying to expel the nervous energy that is running rampant in my veins. My wine buzz has been irrevocably replaced with fear.

“Mmm,” I manage. When I see her tap her phone screen a few times before placing the phone against her ear, I ask her who she’s calling. “No cops!” I yell-whisper, using a slicing motion in front of my throat.

“Hey, Cuz,” she greets whoever is on the other end of the line. She lifts her free hand in a shushing motion. First, I am being threatened and now, I’m being silenced by my best friend.

I watch her as a wry smile spreads across her face. “I’m calling in my I-owe-you. I’ll text the address and a vague rundown, but once you’re here, you’ll know the whole story. Best to keep proprietary info off the line.” There’s a momentary pause before Ashlee says, “I learned it from SVU. I know what’s up, okay?” A pause. “Yes, the I-owe-you.”

It’s hard to focus on the one-sided conversation when a small voice in my head keeps asking me if this is real. Could this be a prank? Someone’s sick and warped sense of humor trying to get under my skin? What have I done to become a target? There’s literally no one that I know of that would do this. I swallow difficultly.

Ashlee sighs loudly. “Adam. Why would I call this in all willy-nilly if it wasn’t important?” There’s a stretch of silence on her end for a beat. “I-I guess I didn’t think if you and the team were busy…well, are you?” She rolls her eyes at me, then blows out a relieved breath. “Then what’s the problem?” She places a knee on the whicker chair. “That’s great, then. I always say, ‘it’s best to have someone indebted to you than the other way around.’” She checks her watch. “So…when can you be here?” Her eyes grow large. “Even better than I thought. Can’t wait to see you.” Ash hangs up and gives me an encouraging smile.

“Care to share with me what that was all about?” My stomach feels like there’s a lead balloon in it, and it has nothing to do with our dinner.

“That was my cousin, Adam. He owns his own personal protection company. He owes me, so he’ll be here in about five hours.”

“For…what?” I stammer. Nothing was making sense. Five hours? Where was he coming from? Did it matter? I didn’t know him, didn’t know what the hell I should be doing at the moment, how to even begin this impossible task demanded of me, let alone share it with a stranger. And worse yet, what if I couldn’t find the cuff?

“To help you. To protect you while you go find this bracelet thing.” If it even exists . I could hear her unspoken words loud and clear.

I shake my head, the smallest ounce of reasoning coming to me. “Why not go to the Feds?”

“Did you hear the guy on the phone? No authorities.”

“I get that, but if I go to the FBI, their people can go undercover and be undetected…right?”

Ashlee laughs and it feels like someone has poured cold water over my head. “No offense, but they’ve got nothing on Adam and his team. I’m not saying the Feds aren’t good at what they do, they’re just the wrong kind of good for this situation.” I scrunch my face in confusion. “Okay,” Ash says, taking a seat and grabbing my hand, “the forest is filled with plenty of trophy bucks, right? Impressive, big antlers…?”

“What does this have to do—”

“Hear me out. So you’ve got this population of trophy deer that vie for their hand at mating, and while they’re parading around and putting on a show, what do you think happens?”

I’m at a loss, but I humor her. “Get the girls going?”

“No. There are plenty of ‘sneaker deer’ that creep in and mate with the does.” I must look utterly lost with her analogy because she presses on. “My point is, do you want the showy-big-impressive deer to protect you or do you want to send in the ones that go undetected? The ones that get the job done while no one is the wiser?” She squeezes my hand for emphasis, then drops it.

“I get it, but I don’t kno—”

“But I know Adam. And I know his military record. The accolades he’s received. The integrity and reputation of his company.”

“Most testimonials are made up…”

She gasps. “Are you accusing me of lying about the credibility of my own family?”

I shake my head in the negative. “Just trying to play devil’s advocate.”

“Okay, so I don’t need to tell you then that Adam retired as a master sergeant. Mia, he and half the guys were Marine Raiders.”

“I’ve never heard of Raiders.”

“Isn’t that sort of the point? They were special ops…trained in unconventional warfare, direct action, reconnaissance, counterterrorism, and more. A lot of his missions were top secret. Every time he was deployed, we never knew where he was sent. He can’t talk about much of it even today. But the little he has told us…we’re all safer because of the missions he’s completed and the enemies he’s taken out.”

She scoots to the edge of her seat, demanding my full attention. “Mia, these guys are the elitest of the elite. They’re the best at what they do. I don’t really think you have a choice here.”

I agree with her.

“I…I---” A tear drops from eye, uninvited.

“Yep. I got you. Let’s get you downstairs and sobered up before they arrive.” I feel her hand link in my arm, her steadying presence welcome. It’s hard to move one foot in front of the other, presently.

“They have my dad…” I trail off.

She squeezes my arm in reassurance. “I know, babe. Adam and the guys will get it figured out, though. They always do.”