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The morning light above was stark in the gray sky, and Amelia paused just inside the front door of the small jewelry store, trying not to frown at the chemical smell of recent disinfectant and glass cleaner. The proprietor, a wiry man in his late fifties, hovered behind the display counter, looking as though he regretted ever calling the police. But given the circumstances—Wendell Reed’s visit—he’d had no real choice.

Right next to Amelia stood Inspector Harris McNeil, posture rigid, a severe expression on his face that barely masked his annoyance. He glanced at her with thinly veiled disapproval, then returned his attention to the jeweler. To Amelia’s other side was Detective constable Clint, younger, friendlier, and apparently more at ease with her presence than McNeil was. Clint even offered Amelia a brief, sympathetic nod as if to say, I know this is awkward, but let’s make it work .

“It’s unfortunate we had to trouble you again, Mr. Turner,” McNeil said in a flat tone, “but we need every detail about Wendell Reed’s time here. The Home Office wants us to examine the scene thoroughly.” His voice caught slightly on the words Home Office . Amelia resisted the urge to sigh. She knew exactly how McNeil felt about her involvement—and that it wasn’t his choice. Mandates were mandates.

“Yes, Inspector,” Alfred Turner, the owner, replied. He wrung his hands, shifting from one foot to the other. “As I mentioned on the phone, he came yesterday around midday. I didn’t realize who he was until later when I saw a picture of him on the television, or I’d have—”

McNeil lifted a hand, cutting him off gently but brusquely. “We understand. Let’s not dwell on that. We’d like to see the security footage you mentioned.”

Turner’s gaze slid to Amelia nervously, as though seeking validation. “I—I have it queued up in the back.”

Amelia offered him a small nod. “We’ll follow you. Lead the way.”

They trailed him behind the counter, stepping through a narrow door into a cramped office space. A modest desk overflowed with receipts, watch catalogs, and business documents. Near the far wall, a small computer monitor sat on a battered table, cables snaking behind it. Turner approached the monitor and gestured for them to gather around.

“Here,” he murmured. “I’ve got it paused at the part where he asked to see a specific watch.”

Amelia leaned in, focusing on the screen. The black-and-white footage showed Wendell Reed—hair cropped short, wearing a worn jacket—standing on the customer’s side of the display case. Turner, visible from behind the counter, slid something across: presumably a high-end watch. Wendell reached for it, then the footage caught him dropping it. He bent to pick it up, rummaging out of view for a moment. Then, a second or two later, he straightened, handing the watch back.

“There,” Turner said, pointing at the figure. “He apologized for being clumsy. Seemed genuinely sorry.”

Amelia frowned. “Wendell Reed never does anything by accident. He’s not clumsy.”

McNeil threw her a sideways glance, lips pressed in disapproval. “People slip up sometimes, Winters. Even criminals.”

She shook her head decisively. “Not him. There’s always a reason. He never does anything randomly.” The evidence on the screen validated her suspicion: Reed had stooped out of camera range for a moment—time enough to do something else.

Clint, looking at the short replay, gave a thoughtful hum. “He’s down there for about three seconds, at least. Could be he slipped something under the counter or tampered with something. Hard to see from this angle.”

Amelia turned to the shop owner. “Where is that watch now?”

“Back out in the front display,” Turner said. “I couldn’t find anything wrong with it. It’s not damaged or missing parts.”

“Could you show it to us anyway?” she asked gently.

“Of course.” Turner clicked a key to pause the video, then led them back through the office door and around the display cases. The shop’s overhead lights gave off a yellowish hue, reflecting off polished glass and silver. Through the front window, faint midday light seeped in but didn’t do much to warm the sterile interior. Amelia spotted the watch in question, resting on a velvet pad, center of a row of similar high-end timepieces.

With a trembling hand, Turner unlocked the case and plucked it out, offering it to Amelia. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves—she’d brought a few pairs for evidence handling—and accepted the watch. She turned it carefully, checking the dial, the casing, the strap. Nothing indicated any unusual additions.

“I don’t see anything,” she muttered, handing it to Clint for a second look. “What about you?”

Clint squinted at it, tested the clasp, weighed it in his palm. “Feels normal. If Reed sabotaged it, I’m not sure how.” He passed it to McNeil, who barely glanced at the face before returning it to Turner.

McNeil cleared his throat. “Seems like a dead end.” He faced Amelia, eyes narrowed. “Let’s not waste more time. If there’s no sign the watch was tampered with, we’ll note it. Unless you want to examine every last item in the store?”

Amelia bit down on her impatience. She understood that McNeil resented being forced to work with her. She was also aware that, from his perspective, she was an extra complication, courtesy of higher-ups who thought her personal history with Wendell might be relevant. Amelia suspected she was some sort of bait.

“No,” she answered calmly, turning to survey the store. “But you said you didn’t realize who Wendell was until you recognized him on the news later, right, Mr. Turner?”

“That’s right,” the owner confirmed. “He was quite polite—except for that odd moment with the watch. I assumed he was just careless.”

Amelia exhaled slowly. “He’s not. There had to be some reason for him to drop it.” She looked around the store again, taking in the layout. Central display counters formed a rectangle, with small gaps at the bottom. The area behind was a waist-high shelf for spare watch stands. She cast her gaze across each corner, each edge.

McNeil tapped his foot lightly. “Winters, we have enough for our report. Reed came, looked at a watch, left. The watch is fine. If there’s nothing else to discover, let’s move on.”

She said nothing, instead letting her gut guide her. Her eyes kept returning to the spot on the floor in the security footage where Wendell had crouched. It was right by the front of the main counter. “He bent down about here, didn’t he?”

Turner nodded uncertainly, shadowing her steps. “Yes, near that corner.”

Amelia advanced, kneeling by the display cabinet. The polished wooden base looked solid, but a narrow gap between the wood and the tiled floor might allow someone to slip something underneath. She pressed a palm against the wood; it had maybe a half-inch clearance above the tile.

McNeil grunted. “What exactly are you doing?”

Clint, sensing Amelia’s purpose, gently moved around to shine his phone’s flashlight into the space. “Here, let me help. The underside is dark.”

Amelia muttered her thanks, then crouched even lower, belly nearly touching the floor. She wiggled her hand into the gap. Her fingertips brushed something—paper. In a rush of adrenaline, she pinched and dragged it out.

“What is that?” McNeil demanded, stepping closer. Turner’s mouth fell open, while Clint held the phone’s light steady.

Amelia carefully eased the folded slip of paper free. It was small and slightly bent, as though crumpled in haste. She swallowed, unfolding it to reveal a short message in scrawled handwriting:

Ludgate Station, 2 PM.

She stared at it, heart pounding. “This… this has to be Wendell’s doing.” Her voice quivered with triumph and apprehension.

Clint exhaled, a low whistle. “Holy— So he did hide something.”

“Of course,” Amelia said, a tightness in her chest easing into something like vindication. She rose to her feet, turning the note so all three could see. “He doesn’t do mistakes, Inspector.”

McNeil, lips thin, examined the scribbled text. “Ludgate Station, 2 PM. That’s… today’s date? Tomorrow’s?” He checked his watch, voice still colored with reluctance to concede Amelia was right. “It’s almost one now. If this is for two o’clock today, that leaves us an hour. That’s not much time to get ready.”

Clint’s eyes flickered with both excitement and worry. “He’s giving a location and time—like an invitation or a meeting spot. Or a trap.”

Turner hovered near them, still shocked. “He must’ve placed it there when he bent down for the watch. I… I had no idea.”

Amelia closed the note, carefully putting it into a small evidence bag from her coat pocket. “We’ll treat it as potential evidence. Forensics can check for prints or residue, though I suspect Wendell will have wiped it.”

McNeil still looked displeased, though he seemed duty-bound to address Amelia more respectfully now. “We’ll inform the rest of the task force. Likely they’ll want eyes on Ludgate Station. Clint, you up for that?”

Clint nodded. “Absolutely. We can stake it out, see if he shows.”

Amelia inhaled slowly. She’d dreaded the possibility of facing Wendell again, but the lead was too tangible to ignore. “I’ll go as well. If that’s all right.” She tried to keep her tone civil, aware that McNeil might push back.

A flicker of frustration crossed his face, but he gave a curt nod. “Fine. We’ll need every available body. Let’s hope we’re not being drawn into a wild goose chase.”

Amelia slid her gaze back to the gap under the cabinet, thinking of Wendell’s cunning. “Even if it is a trick, it’s our best shot at catching him right now. He's playing games with us. There was no guarantee we'd find this. It's likely he thinks he's operating with fate on his side, and this was a test of that belief.”

Clint placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, just briefly. “Good instincts, Inspector Winters. If you hadn’t insisted on checking, we’d have missed that note.”

McNeil didn’t respond, but Amelia could almost sense his grudging acceptance that her presence had proven useful. Meanwhile, Turner stood behind the counter, looking as though he was ready to faint from relief that the police would handle this next phase. “Thank you for your help,” Amelia told him. “And if Wendell tries to contact you again or returns, call us immediately.”

The jeweler nodded, bobbing his head repeatedly. “I—I will. Thank you, Inspector. Detective Clint. Inspector McNeil”

The three officers walked to the door. McNeil opened it, letting Clint and Amelia step out into the chilly air. They paused on the pavement, the store’s CLOSED sign still hanging behind them. A mild wind stirred litter in the gutter. Amelia buttoned her coat, mind racing with the possibility that Wendell wanted them to be at Ludgate Station in less than an hour.

“Clint, get on the radio,” McNeil said, pulling his own phone from his pocket. “We’ll mobilize a small team. I’ll inform the higher-ups. Winters… you can join us, but keep your eyes open. If Reed’s there, he’ll be dangerous. He might be gunning for you.”

Amelia gave a short nod, adrenaline flaring in her veins. “Understood.”

They strode down the sidewalk together, pace quickening. The tension between McNeil's reluctance and Amelia’s determination hung in the air, but their immediate focus was the same: catch Wendell Reed, or at least glean his next move from the cryptic note.

Amelia’s thoughts churned. She’d made her point—Wendell didn’t drop that watch by accident, and it led her right to his hidden message. But why a station? And why 2 PM? She suspected he was orchestrating something more twisted than a mere meeting. He loved these mind games.

Clint, finishing a short radio call, caught up to her with a faint, encouraging smile. “Good job in there, by the way,” he said quietly, out of earshot of McNeil “Don’t let him get to you. I know McNeil's not thrilled you’re on board, but you proved your worth.”

She offered a tight smile in return. “Thanks. We’ll see if it actually leads somewhere. If he doesn’t show—”

“This is as good a lead as we have,” Clint finished firmly.

Amelia nodded. Wendell wasn’t a typical fugitive. He held grudges, especially against her, and had a knack for staying a step ahead. But she wouldn’t let that fear paralyze her. This was a chance for them to corner him, to end his twisted trail before he got started.

At the corner of the block, McNeil halted. “We’ll take separate cars. Clint, you’re with me. Winters, you can follow. Make sure we coordinate so we arrive at Ludgate with at least a few minutes to spare.”

Amelia accepted the instruction, ignoring the patronizing edge in his voice. A minute later, they parted ways. She climbed into her unmarked sedan, turned the key, and felt the engine roar to life. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she inhaled deeply, an odd mixture of nerves and excitement thrumming through her.

The note with “Ludgate Station, 2 PM” replayed in her mind’s eye. She pictured Wendell stooping to place it. He’d known she would be here, scouring the shop, maybe. Or he suspected any officer with half a mind would find it. The clock on her dashboard read 12:56. Time was short. They had to hurry.

She pulled away from the curb, trailing a half-block behind McNeil's car. Detective Clint would be in there, likely discussing final arrangements. Amelia tapped her phone’s hands-free system, calling ahead to another colleague for backup. With enough presence, they might secure the station’s exits.

This is it , she thought. My first real chance at confronting Wendell since he escaped. I have to make it count. The image of him dropping the watch replayed in her mind, the skillful way he manipulated everything to hide a simple slip of paper. He was cunning, always planning. She prayed they wouldn’t be walking into an ambush.