The past few days had been nothing but a blur of police interviews, statements, and endless questions.
Who had keys to the exhibit?
Did I notice anything strange before closing?
Was I sure I locked the door?
The same questions over and over until they all started to sound like noise.
The museum was shut down "indefinitely," which was a fancy way of saying we're finding someone to blame and it's probably you. They called it "administrative leave," but I knew what that meant.
I was suspended, waiting for the axe to drop.
All my work—three years of it—was now a headline: Priceless Artifact Stolen.
So that's how I ended up here.
A dingy little bar that smelled like smoke, regret, and cheap whiskey.
If I'd learned anything from true crime documentaries or video games, it was that shady places like this were either gold mines for information—or where people went to get mugged. Either way, I wasn't leaving without something happening.
The place was half empty, dimly lit by neon signs that flickered like dying stars. Some guys at the far table were playing pool, another was passed out in his own beer, and the bartender looked like he'd rather die than make small talk.
I took a slow sip of my drink and glanced at the clock. I'd been sitting here for almost an hour and all I'd gotten was a mild buzz and secondhand depression.
"Great detective work, Marcella," I muttered into my glass.
Just as I was about to give up and leave, the stool beside me creaked.
Someone sat down.
I didn't have to look to know he was big. The air around him felt heavy. When I did glance sideways, I nearly choked on my drink.
He looked like he'd walked straight out of a crime drama—or a nightmare.
Broad shoulders, messy dirty-blond hair, and dark stubble that didn't look like it ever met a razor willingly. A faint scar ran along his neck, another above his lip, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were a deep honey brown, warm but sharp enough to cut.
He wasn't movie-star handsome. He was real handsome—the kind that came with bruises, bad decisions, and stories you shouldn't ask about.
"Bourbon," he said to the bartender, voice low and edged with something… foreign. Maybe British? Northern, maybe Yorkshire. There was a lazy drawl under it, the kind that made every word sound effortless.
When he turned his gaze to me, I froze.
"What?" he asked flatly.
Just that. One word, delivered like he couldn't care less.
"Nothing," I mumbled, looking away. My drink suddenly became fascinating.
But I could still feel him watching me.
He had that kind of presence—like the world tilted a bit when he looked your way.
Then he spoke again. "What's a lady doing in a place like this?"
I stiffened. Great. So much for my disguise. I had pulled my hair back, worn a hoodie and jeans, even lowered my voice when ordering my drink. Apparently, that didn't fool him.
"I don't know what you're talking about, man," I said, trying my best to sound masculine.
He didn't even blink. Just smirked, like he was humoring a child.
His drink arrived. He took a slow sip, eyes still on me. "Word of advice," he said. "If you're gonna play spy, make sure your pink panties aren't showing."
My brain short-circuited.
I looked down so fast I nearly fell off the stool. My hoodie had ridden up, exposing just enough waistband to betray me. Fantastic. I tugged it down and avoided his gaze like it was radioactive.
He chuckled, low and quiet. Not mocking, just... amused.
"Didn't mean to embarrass you," he said, swirling his drink. "Just figured I'd save you from looking like an amateur."
My cheeks burned, and I silently thanked my olive skin for hiding most of it.
"Thanks," I muttered. "Next time I'll wear camouflage."
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "Good plan."
He looked away for a moment, and I caught myself studying him. The scars, the tired eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man who'd seen too much, done too much, and stopped caring about most things—except, maybe, his bourbon.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, and something in his face changed. The casual mask dropped, replaced by raw anger. His jaw clenched, and he whispered under his breath, "Fucking hell."
The moment passed in a heartbeat. The mask was back on. Calm. Controlled.
He downed the rest of his drink and stood. "Well. See you around, girl."
And just like that, he was gone.
He didn't even look back.
I sat there, staring at the empty space where he'd been, my heart hammering for no logical reason.
There was something about him—something that pulled at me. Like gravity. Like danger wrapped in human form.
''You should have gone with him.'
The thought came out of nowhere, a whisper that wasn't my own. My body went still.
I looked around the bar. No one was near me. The bartender was wiping glasses, the drunks were arguing over pool.
The whisper wasn't real. Couldn't be.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss it, but the unease stayed.
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or the guilt. Or maybe I'd just officially lost my mind.
I finished my drink, paid, and pushed out into the night air. It was cold and damp, the kind that made your skin prickle.