A Matter of Course

By: cultureandseptember

Chapter Four: Stolen

But, as it is, we have the wolf by the ear, and we can neither hold him nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation is in the other.

– Thomas Jefferson (1820)

Corey wasn't even trying to hide his glare. And I really couldn't puzzle out why. His brows were pulled together while his bony fingers loosely looped around the handle of his coffee mug. He was making a conscious and obvious show of his military nature, kicking his legs out to cross his feet—where his combat boots were most visible. And his dog tags sat on top of his worn t-shirt. I felt my eyes roll. All I wanted was something to eat after a terrible morning at the museum. Instead, somehow I had stumbled into a warzone. How was I to know that Corey would be such an ass today? The air around the table seemed to crackle with tension, mostly from my brother's side. He gave me a surreptitious glance and then resumed his glaring at our newspaper-perusing tablemate.

"You got a problem, kid?" John lifted his cup of steaming coffee to his lips and glanced toward my brother. He folded his paper in the same way he had in one of my barely recovered memories, once horizontal, once vertical. He tossed it onto the table and smirked. "If you got a problem, then please…enlighten me."

"John…" I couldn't help but to give him a quelling look. He was egging my brother on and I really wasn't in the mood for it. John just gave me a wink and leaned back, crossing his arms.

He had become comfortable around my family. After two weeks in Nashville, my mother had practically adopted him into her brood. As I expected she would He crashed on our couch whenever possible, citing his "jackass" of brother as a terrible roommate. Momma felt bad for him. He explained himself as "an old college buddy" of mine that went off for "study abroad" for a certain number of years. He commented rather slyly at the dinner table one evening that I would have made a much better roommate—a prettier one, too, and much more even-tempered.

My mother missed the wink he sent my way. I merely shook my head. But my brother…My brother hadn't missed it and, from that moment on, Corey had shifted into his role as a protective younger brother. He grilled Johnny at every free moment and John humored him, veiling every single damn answer with some potential for romantic connection beyond the platonic. John was having an absolute blast leading my brother on at every turn.

"Frankly, doll face, never saw ya as anything but a friend and sister," John had grinned after my mother's apple pie and vanilla. "Corey doesn't know that though, does he? Haha!"

And, frankly, the two of them were about to drive me insane.

"Why'd you invite him anyway, huh? He's always around now." Corey muttered to me, acting like John couldn't hear the stage whisper. I shot my brother a disbelieving look at his rudeness and went to answer. He cut me off. "I just…somethin' ain't right with him, Shelly. I've been tryin' to tell you, somethin' ain't right."

"Corey, not now. Please. I've got a really bad headache. It was a hell of a morning with the preparations for Dr. Balfour's visit and with the school trip lineup. I really don't need this right now." My voice was nearly a whine, but I tried to force it into more of a pleading tone. My right palm pressed against my forehead a little more dramatically than necessary. "He sort of just invited himself—"

"Sorry to break it to ya, but she insisted I come along. She's a pretty good sister like that, don't ya think?" Johnny removed his sunglasses and sat forward, grinning. His eyes flickered to me and I could see just how much fun he was having in irritating Corey. I withheld a scoff and tried to ignore the pain in my head. "Ya can't run interference forever, buddy."

My kick was swift and thoughtless. My heeled foot sailed into his shin before I even thought the action through. All I could think was that he had to stop pissing my brother off on purpose. Pissing him off naturally was fine (and expected, considering Johnny's usual demeanor), but actively seeking to make him angry was another matter entirely. It had to stop. Two weeks was enough. Because I was the one that always ended up getting the rants and earfuls that came later. Johnny flinched, gasping in surprise. It probably hurt a bit and I regretted that just a bit. I didn't want to hurt him. I only wanted to make him stop.

"S-Sorry," I muttered, "but you deserved it." The last bit was a whisper.

He stared at me for a moment, a volley of emotions raining over his face. Hurt seemed to be among the most prominent. Before I could mutter an apology, he began to laugh. I looked toward my slightly bewildered brother, who raised his brows at me in question. Johnny began laughing so hard he was doubled over.

"Ya know, if there's one thing I've learned—it's that some things never change. A whole century could pass and some things would stay the same." He continued to laugh, clearly overjoyed at the idea of consistency. Honestly, I really couldn't say where that outburst had come from.

Maybe it was somehow connected to a worry that he shared with me one night after work.

We had been walking down the residential street where my house was located, just outside of Nashville. The asphalt had been wet with newly fallen rain and steam was rising from the hot earth. He was a few strides ahead of me, recalling some memory that I no longer possessed—something about a time when I was sick and how I didn't take off work. I listened with half-attention, watching the rigidity in his shoulders instead. This night, he had arrived after dinner with a dark expression on his face.

"I wish I could tell you, Shelly. Truth is, I really want to. There's something…Something that's making me stay quiet. I don't have a choice." There was regret in his tone. "I know you hate not having answers. I know it drives you crazy. Frankly, it drives me just as nuts not being able to give you something you need." Under his breath, he muttered something about cursing Alfred off the face of the western hemisphere. "Anyway, last time we talked, your mom interrupted our conversation. What was the question you wanted to ask?"

He stopped for a moment, turning to face me. The tension had melted from his shoulders and his head hung forward, both hands looped into his khaki shorts. He was watching the steam rise from the road. The sun was setting in the distance and I felt myself hesitate. Suddenly, inexplicably, I didn't want to ask him about my injuries. I didn't want to ask him how I earned my limp or how I had blast damage consistent with a bomb. Those questions would only upset him and, while I wanted to be selfish, I couldn't bring myself to ruin the calm that rested around him in that humid twilight. I pressed my lips together and remained quiet.

"Heh, after I touched that globe, I thought things would change. I was so scared that they would change. That you would change. You…You're family to me." New York whispered under his breath. He never turned to face me, never acknowledged that I could have heard his words. He just kicked a loose bit of asphalt and went back to strolling down the street. "We went to eat at a place called Dino's a lot. You used to—God, this is hard.—You used to love their pizza. Said it was the best you ever had. You always used to get this look in your eyes, whenever you encountered something new like that. You always got so excited just to be trying something new." He stopped again, turning to me. "To me, Michelle, it's like you died and came back to life. It's…hard to describe. No, you know what? I'm just happy to have you with me."

The sound of Bon Jovi music filled the air and I was torn away from his pleased laughter, scrambling to retrieve my phone from my purse. Too often nowadays, I was lost in a haze. Always trying to make sense of a puzzle when I didn't have half the pieces. A picture alighted on the screen, Dr. Higgens and her grinning husband from a cookout the previous April. I pulled my finger across to answer, holding up one hand to stop Corey and John's argument before it even began. Both of their mouths snapped shut and I grinned in response. Typical brothers. "Hello?"

"M-Michelle!"

Already, I was on my feet. I pulled my wallet from my purse, only to have John place his hand on my arm. I jerked to attention, seeing his head shake. He was on his feet as well, concern clear on his face. "Don't worry about it, Shell. I got this." He looked toward Corey, who was staring up at the exchange like we were some interesting reality television show. "Well, fella, you gonna take her to work or what? Somethin's obviously going down at the museum." Corey was on his feet the next second, reaching for his money. "Don't worry about it, son. I've got yours too. Take her on in." His voice was firm, not leaving much room for argument.

Corey stiffened for a moment before slowly nodding his head, a smile pulling at his lips. There was a flash of something in his dark eyes. It was begrudging, but it was there. Respect. As I took a step toward the gate, Corey seemed to consider Johnny for a moment before holding out his calloused hand. John wasted no time in reaching forward to return the gesture. They bumped chests in that sort-of manly shake that young men did. Even though I really wanted to appreciate the significance of that exchange, I was distracted by Loraine's quivering alto. I refocused my attention on her, striding toward Corey's truck.

"—in broad daylight, too! I ain't—ain't never seen anythin' like it! They just swept in like they owned the place, t-took a lot of artifacts right from the archives. From the archives, Michelle! We—We were down there. One of them had a gun on me and Donny—on Don-Donny. On Donny. I thought we were gonna die. I—I thought he was-was…" I tossed my cane into the floor of the cab and climbed into the truck, lifting myself up by the handle. The tires squealed as Corey tore out of the parking lot. "The police're here now. They're questioning everyone. I—I—" She was quickly losing composure and I felt myself starting to panic. Dr. Higgens had never lost her composure, ever. "I—I thought…"

"Are you okay? Loraine, are you alright?"

"What? Y-Yeah. Yes, I'm okay. We're okay. We're okay now." There was the sound of someone talking in the background. I could hear the phone being jostled around. Fear lanced through me at the few words that I caught in the rush of noise. "Michelle, they're taking Donny to the hospital. Something's wrong. Something's—"

"To the hospit—"

"I've got to go. Talk to Frank when you get here."

"Wait, Loraine, what—"

When the line went dead, I slid my finger across the screen and stared blankly ahead toward the other side of the red light we were sitting at. My hands were shaking so violently, I had to grasp my phone tightly between both hands to keep them still enough for Corey not to notice. "The museum was robbed. Something happened to Donny. They're taking him to the hospital. Loraine said that Dr. Franklin will answer my questions." Something felt strange, off somehow. I couldn't explain the feeling of apprehension that bloomed in my chest, anxiety and tension welling up behind my heart. Then tips of my fingers almost felt as if they were numb. Sucking in a breath, I tried to reason out this feeling of dread. "What—What are you doing after you drop me off?"

He glanced over to me and shrugged. "I have a few emails I have to respond to before tonight and I need to make a call to my CO. Other than that, I'm probably gonna head over to the restaurant. You headin' out with John?"

I nodded absent-mindedly, glancing down to the screen of my phone. "You know I'm off next week, right? I'm goin' to Washington to visit John's family. Tell Momma that Donny's in the hospital and that I'll be heading there after I get everything sorted at the museum. I'll take the bus." Corey nodded just as we pulled up to the stop sign a block away from the museum.

Police cruisers sat along the street, officers milling about. Caution tape had been set up to cordon off the museum access, keeping clear of the convention center across the street where a huge convention was taking place. The whole thing must have been a logistical nightmare. Masses upon masses of people were in downtown Nashville for an anime convention, which was great for nearby businesses. Many of the costumed goers were watching the scene from the opposite sidewalk, looking curiously at the museum. While keeping those throngs away from the museum, the police had also shut down traffic along the eastbound lane of Broadway, causing traffic to spiral out of control. I sighed, shaking my head. Was blocking the street really necessary? It was just a robbery.

"You sure you wanna walk into that nightmare?"

I gave my brother a close-lipped smile and opened the door, reaching down to grab my purse and cane. "No choice and you walk into worse."

"No argument here," he grunted. "Be careful." He pulled away and left me to battle through the crowds. News crews were already set up along the pavement, cameras aimed toward the front entrance of my museum. If they worked fast, they could make the five o'clock prime.

My identification card got me through the first and second checkpoints, earning me strange glances from several of the observers. My limp was garnering some attention from the crowd as well, but I ignored the looks. Instead, I quickly made my way over to the side entrance, noting the increased police presence. It was clear that the thieves had broken in through the back door. Somehow, the metal door was knocked clear off its hinges and sat just a few feet inside. Whoever had done that much damage must have been stronger than an ox. Of course, I already knew that there had been multiple members to this gang, as Loraine had said. Maybe they used a ram to shove the door inward?

When Dr. Franklin saw me, I could see the relief on his weathered features. His hand rose to rub his bald head as he strode toward me. "It's—It's good you're here." Sweat was beading down his forehead and his eyes were squinting, his usual thin-framed glasses conspicuously missing from his face. I thought I could smell a corn-chip stench wafting off of him as a breeze fluttered through the open doorway. "L-Loraine called you, didn't she?"

"You need to know what was taken?" I questioned, looking to the approaching officer with a curious expression. He gave me a comforting smile and nodded his head. Dr. Franklin looked halfway to Loon Island and, if he continued to rub his head like that, he was going to lose the rest of his hair.

It was best to take on a clinical persona while dealing with this situation. Dr. Franklin was already emotional enough for the whole damn museum staff. Someone needed to stay clear-headed. "Contrary to what Dr. Franklin believes, both Dr. Higgens and her husband kept very detail records of the artifacts. Over the past two weeks, I have been training with them in preservation and archival research. I can tell you what was taken and where it previously was."

Dr. Franklin opened his mouth, but was cut off by the officer. "That would be very helpful, ma'am. It's such a mess down there that it's difficult to say that anything had a specific place." Before he could lead me toward the stairs, I reached forward and grabbed my boss's shoulder. He looked up to me and shook his head in disbelief. I noticed then that there was a cut on his temple and that a bruise was forming on his right cheek. Glancing around, it seemed that no one had taken notice of Frank's injuries—likely sustained in trying to stop the intruders in some foolhardy attempt to protect the history he worked tirelessly to preserve.

When the officer stopped a few feet away and looked back, I released my hold on the older man and walked over to him. Under my breath, I muttered to him. "Dr. Franklin needs to see a doctor. I wouldn't be surprised if he has a minor concussion." I began to follow him down the stairs, noticing the way he slowed his pace so as not to walk to far ahead of me. My limp was slow-going on stairs, no matter how long had passed since I received the injury. "Is Donny alright? Dr. Higgens said—"

"Dr. Daniels." He stopped at the next landing, turning to look at me. There was some reluctance in his eyes and is stance grew stiff. I felt it before he said it. Somehow, I knew. I felt sick with realization. Nausea hit me faster than I could prepare for and I slapped a hand over my mouth, swallowing down the bile in my back of my throat. My head shook in denial, but the officer forced the words out. "Donald—Donald Higgens died on the way to the hospital." His stance straightened a bit. "This…is now a murder investigation."

With that bomb dropped, he spun on his polished boot and made his way down the remaining flight of stairs. I stood frozen at the precipice. A hundred thoughts crashed through my mind at once. The one that overwhelmed all others was the thought of Loraine. No matter how much I wanted to breakdown and cry, I knew that I couldn't do that. I couldn't lose composure until I was alone. At that moment, there was work to be done and, by God, I was going to do it. If they needed my help to find those sons of bitches that killed Donny, then so help me, I would do anything I could to render my aide.

Running my hands over my face, I straightened my blouse and started a little unsteadily down the stairs. For a moment, a very brief and frightening moment, I forgot everything. Who I was. Where I was. Everything. I took a deep breath and stared down at the concrete floor.

Blood.

Darkness.

My head shook and forced myself out of that place, wherever it was. I was Dr. Michelle Daniels and, no matter what afflictions I faced, I had work to do. I regained full control and lifted my head, ready to enter the archives. My mourning and insanity could come later.

It was utter chaos inside. Absolute and utter chaos. There were artifacts—priceless artifacts—strewn in every direction. It took a few long moments for me to get my bearings in that kind of pandemonium. Over toward the right hand side of the open central space where Dr. Higgens' and Donny's work tables resided, there were crime scene investigators snapping pictures and analyzing the section closest to Loraine's table. I felt my stomach lurch at the thought of how this would have happened. In my mind, I could almost envision it. My eyes closed momentarily.

Gunshots down the corridor.

Low lighting and enclosed concrete walls.

My breathing was growing shallower and shallower.

The concussion of a gun, like the crack of a whip.

Out of the blue.

Out of nowhere.

Out of the mid-day sky.

No warning.

My head shook again and I tried to rid myself of the frightening memories. My eyes opened. The men must have rushed in from the elevator. (But why would they risk that amount of time? It didn't make sense.) Donny must have heard them first and put himself between Loraine and the intruders. That was just the kind of thing Donny would do—would have done. He would have given his life to save Loraine's. Without a doubt. Without question. One must have kept the gun on them and the others must have ransacked the room. My eyes flew open and I looked around, catching particular details that no other person would have been able to distinguish. Certain peculiarities in the way that my mentors archived items. Eyes flickering toward the boxes to the right. The items in those boxes were below all the others. Those were the first boxes dropped and searched. My gaze flickered to a winter coat that I had catalogued only days before.

"They were looking for something specific," I said quietly. "Thought the archive would be in alphabetical order. Started with the first boxes."

No matter how quietly I had murmured the words, one of the investigators heard it. She stepped forward, arched brows raised in curiosity. There was something territorial about her, like I was encroaching on her territory. Her stance was almost militaristic; feet spread shoulder-length apart. It was almost as if she thought that would intimidate me. "That's what we've worked out, yeah. Who're you?" Her tone was low and brittle.

"This is Dr. Michelle Daniels. She worked with the deceased—" I barely withheld a flinch. "—as an intern. Figured she could be of use in figuring out what the perps stole." The officer introduced with an obvious note of disdain in his voice. At first, I thought that he was directing that dislike toward me, but I instead noticed the way he was looking at the investigator. Shifting his weight to his other leg, he gestured toward the suited woman with a half-hearted wave. "Doctor, this is Special Agent Jane Randolph. She's the FBI liaison."

"Lead investigator, but who's really keeping track? Right, Harry?" The agent snarked, clearly making a show of her badge before she gestured around at the destruction.

I couldn't help but to find something a little strange about her presence. The crime had only just occurred and yet it had already drawn the attention of the FBI? Granted, this was considered federal property and the museum was owned, in large part, by the government. Maybe they were just protecting their interests. A retired Marine murdered in a military museum heist? How was he murdered anyway and why did they rule it as homicide so quickly? Loraine had said that Donny was okay when we spoke on the phone. What could have happened on the way to the hospital? It was terrible publicity for the federal government. Negativity that they certainly didn't need.

My eyes narrowed and I glanced away, not wanting to draw attention to myself for my suspicion. I had never been one for thinking ill of the government, but I knew when to call a spade a spade. Something was up. Something was wrong. "So, Dr. Daniels, can you tell me where you were between noon and one?"

Stunned by the question, I turned to her at felt my jaw unhinge. She was questioning my involvement? By the stance and her tone, she was very much serious. "I was at Bongo Java on Belmont with my brother and friend. There are several witnesses, if you wish to confirm." She merely shrugged and gestured toward the strewn boxes. Seeing her unasked question, I decided to just humor her. "The archives are subject-based rather than name submission based, or alphabetical, in their arrangement. I'd guess by the way they attacked that particular stack, the robbers—"

"—were looking for some last name that began with a primary letter of the alphabet. Somewhere between A and C." Agent Randolph gave me a look and then forced a smile. It didn't reach her sharp blue eyes. "Not my first case, Dr. Daniels. I may look young, but I'm a Senior Agent."

I almost lowered my head in submission, but something kept me from doing so. Something I saw out of the corner of my eye. It was a brown leather bound journal that seemed to lay separate from everything else. Ignoring the investigator, I made my way over to it and the nearby box. My lips pressed together and I knelt down, hands holding firmly to the hem of my pant leg. I knew I couldn't touch any of the objects, but I really didn't need to. This particular journal was one that I recognized. And, among all the other still-packaged journals, this one was free of its measures for preservation and it sat alone on the floor, opened to a page as if it had been thrown there.

"I—I recognize this journal. It was written by a man from Norway… Lukas Bondevik. He submitted a box full of various artifacts two weeks ago." I felt myself growing nervous. If they continued to research this, then surely they would come to realize that I had stolen objects from that box of artifacts. At the same time, shame coursed through me. How could I worry about something like that while Donny had lost his life? Straightening, I turned to the investigator. The officer now stood off to the side, clearly seething at having the case taken from him. "It's conjecture, but I think they were looking for the box belonging to Lukas Bondevik. Why waste the time to unwrap this journal from the seal? It fits the scene."

The agent stiffened just slightly, eyes flashing toward the journal on the floor. She moved forward with caution, making sure not to step on any of the objects between her and the evidence. "Reynolds, you got this photographed?" When the affirmative was yelled from across the space, she bent down and retrieved the journal into her gloved hands. Her eyes scanned the page. "It's in Norwegian. Pretty hastily written." At my surprised expression, she smirked and—for a strange moment—she looked a lot like John. "I know several languages. Have you gotten this translated?" My head shook. She set to flipping through the first couple of pages before she stopped abruptly. Her attention wavered for a moment before she shook her head and snapped the journal shut. "We're still in the middle of this investigation. Thank you, Dr. Daniels, for your insight, but you're free to go."

I hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing on the journal. Whatever it said, it had her uncertain and it was clear that she was going to pursue further translation. Curiosity filled me. That journal was connected to whatever John, Alfred, and Thomas were. It was connected to my memories. I glanced around to where the other investigators were snapping pictures in the corner. There was no blood to be seen, no carnage. He hadn't been shot or stabbed. There would have been blood. "Please let me know if you need anything."

Just a mess of history on the floor.

Runes on the floor. A circle.

Terror and candles.

Prized possessions of the men and women who fought in one of the greatest wars of the modern era. Of any era. Discarded as if they didn't matter. Anger flooded through me. It was wrong. It was so terribly wrong that I almost couldn't see straight. These sons of bitches. These…murderers. They killed Donny. They disrespected everything that we had worked for, everything that Dr. Higgens and her husband worked to protect. Everything that Dr. Franklin had pursued his entire life. On the floor, like garbage. Anything I could do to help them be punished, I would do it. It was such a sense of injustice that I could barely breathe. I felt so terrified, so scared. So angry. So hurt. And I could barely see straight. Why did this happen?

What did they want? What did they want enough to murder an innocent man?

"I'll—I'll go get Dr. Franklin and the rest of the staff straightened out. Is there anything you might need from upstairs?"

"We'll handle ourselves. Just try to stay out of the way." Jane muttered, staring at the ground. Her eyes narrowed as she turned to face me. "Donald Higgens was a veteran of our Armed Forces. And Loraine Higgens is one of the most well-respected historians in the United States. We'll find these men. And we'll bring them to justice." I nodded my head and turned to head upstairs. Her green eyes never left the journal.

I had to call John for a ride. By the time I had finished organizing the turmoil upstairs and calming Dr. Franklin down, I was worn out. So many things needed to be done. Despite being a "lowly intern," I ranked pretty high on the totem pole in comparison to the young unpaid interns and the volunteers who made up the rest of the staff. Frank was nearly catatonic as he sat in his office, staring at the computer screen for several hours. Though I tried to reason with him, I couldn't get him to budge. Therefore, I pulled rank and got things done. Maybe it was my way of coping, maintaining control. Distracting myself. First, I made sure to send Elaine to the hospital. Loraine was still there alone and I knew that she would need the support which I was simply unable to give at the moment. Her family was in Houston. It would be days before they could get to her. Until then, she was my responsibility.

As was the museum.

I set various people to various tasks, all of them in preparation for three days of closure. It would give the authorities time to thoroughly investigate while also giving the staff time to recover from the shock. Advanced purchase tickets had to be refunded or rescheduled. All of that was handled by Paul and myself. The lecture by Dr. Balfour—whom I had been so excited to meet in person—had to be cancelled. I gave him a personal call and informed him of the situation. He was gracious enough to relay the story to the other museums in our network. Despite what it may seem, museums form a close-knit group. Word of what happened would spread like wildfire around the world by the next morning.

It really was my way of coping, I think. I focused on anything else, anything that I could get my hands into. Some strange part of me felt the urge to teach again, something could always be done when teaching. Instead, I would sometimes find myself alone in a part of the museum surrounded by the historical objects that Donny and Loraine had restored together. I would just stare at those objects.

A sense of helplessness seemed almost overwhelming. Still, instinctually, I knew that I was not at my most helpless. I kept getting these flashes of memories—of a corridor and a tiny room. Of concrete and runic markings. I kept hearing phantom gunshots. Every time, I would flinch at the sounds.

I was the last to leave the museum, making sure that everyone else was out before me. Dr. Franklin had given me the spare keys, patting me on the shoulder as he did so. "It shouldn't have happened," he told me. "Not to him."

When Corey didn't answer his phone, I knew exactly who I needed to call. John arrived only ten minutes later. His expression was grim as he looked over to me. There was something in the way he was holding himself that made me wonder what he knew. "Are—Are you alright?"

"Yeah, doll face. You're not exactly in the best of health, right? You can't fight off those guys if you need to. I mean, you'll be entering a battle-like situation and women—"

"Are you seriously about to argue that I can't do this because I'm a woman?"

"Michelle?" His worried tenor broke through my trance, my memory. I shifted a little in the seat of his rented Dodge Challenger, feeling the leather stick to the back of my arms. Everything felt hot. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes. I just fiddled with my shaking hands, staring at them as they twisted in my lap. His hand reached over to rest on top of my hands, making them go still. "Michelle, it's gonna be okay." I turned to him, tears already trailing down my cheeks.

It struck me as I looked at him.

His eyes.

My tears abated after a moment as I continued to stare at his features. A thin nose, oval face shape. Corn-yellow hair. Green eyes. Green eyes. The same eyes. Brows pulling together, I pulled my left hand from underneath his fingers and reached over to pull at the skin next to his eyebrow. I tightened the skin a bit, pulling it toward his hairline. He stared at me as if I were insane, hesitant to say anything in my unstable state. "Uh…What's the deal, Shell?" I felt crazy, a little wild. How could I—It was insane. I felt myself unhinging a bit. My gaze darted from the shifter to the floor and back again. "Michelle! What's wrong?"

There was no doubt in my mind. I couldn't really explain it. I couldn't put my suspicion into words. The agent from the museum, Special Agent Jane Randolph, was related to John. Whatever they (Alfred, John, and Thomas) were, she was as well. Her hair, her face, her eyes. There was an uncanny resemblance there. I couldn't describe my instinctual awareness of that fact, but I knew it to be true. "Do you have a—a sister?"

He raised his brows as I retracted my hand. "I do. Several, in fact." His attention turned back to the road and he gripped the steering wheel tightly. "About…seventeen of them. Well, eighteen." I didn't realize I had gasped until he let out a humorless chuckle. He was obviously weighted down by the events I was enduring. The fact that he was hurting simply because I was… Shaking my head, I redirected my attention outside of the window. "It's connected to the thing that I can't tell you. We're not related, but we kind of are. It's…complicated."

"I figured," I responded automatically. My feeling of panic was subsiding. Now, it was slowly fading back into a critical awareness—where I was most comfortable. "Is one of them an FBI agent?" As these words left my mouth, the Challenger screeched to a halt at a red light. Johnny turned to me with wide eyes. I answered his unasked question. "She was at the museum. She's working the case."

"Jane is?" His brows rose in disbelief. He was still for a single quiet moment before he reached for the cellphone that sat on the dash. "Holy shit. This is not good. Not good at all. Jane's like a bloodhound. She'll figure everything out and ring the alarm before we can discuss this with anyone. I gotta call Tommy. He'll run her down. They've been on talking terms for a while now." New York was dialing the phone in the next instant. "Tommy? Yeah, you got a minute? Well, does it sound like I flippin' care? Nope. No. No, I don't give a rat's ass what you were doing. Now, listen, Jane's in town."

"WHAT?" came out of the phone loud and clear. John winced.

"Yeah, tell me about it. She's working the investigation at the museum. Donald Higgens was killed." He went quiet for a moment and it was clear Tommy was talking. "I'll ask her. Michelle, what was stolen?"

"I don't know. It was a mess down there. I know that they were looking for something that was donated along with the globe. Something from the same man. They looked through his journal and were probably looking for that particular box. I don't know if they found what they were looking for." I shifted in the seat, the same nervous feeling from before letting loose in my stomach.

"Damn. I was so hoping you wouldn't say that." Johnny muttered. "Tommy, call America. Get him to issue the order for Jane to withdraw from the case. Tell him that this is an emergency and that if he doesn't get his shit together, Michelle's gonna be in danger. I gotta take care of her right now. You better make sure that Alfred is over here by tomorrow night, Tennessee, or you're gonna have an angry former spy on your doorstep demanding answers. Or worse, she'll go to straight Norway to get the answers from the Dom's mouth. There's no telling what was in that journal. And we thought we had all the time in the world. Psh." I watched him roll his eyes and he shot me a long-suffering look. "Really, Bubba? The globe isn't gonna make a shred of difference to her except to make her more invested. She'll figure out that there was an alternate timeline and she'll know who Michelle is. But what is the gonna do when—Tell me again how that's a good thing."

"She needs that to find answers though," I interrupted. "Whoever robbed the museum, they were after something that Erik donated. Without her pursuing this, they can't find Donny's killer. These men are connected to you somehow. How else would they know what box to attack? Something doesn't seem right."

Instead of driving any further, John pulled into a deserted parking lot and turned to look at me. "Once Jane knows, she will ask a lot of questions. I mean too many questions. Of you. Do you know what might happen if you regain your memories too quickly? If you regain them at all? Michelle, I don't think I need to tell you how bad things were. If Jane storms in and demands an explanation for whatever Erik wrote, or demands how all this happened, how do you think you're gonna react? If you're mentioned in that journal, what do think is gonna happen? Furthermore, Jane isn't going to understand—"

"This isn't about me! This is about Donny! Those people were looking for something in the museum, something that this Lukas character donated, and Donny was killed because of it! Something connected to me and to you! So what if she forces my memories to return? She needs whatever she needs to solve the crime! Period."

Johnny stared at me for a long moment before shaking his head. "You don't know how big this could escalate, Michelle. You and the globe are more connected than you could ever imagine. This isn't just a localized issue anymore." I could hear Tommy's voice coming out of the phone, but he was cut off by John's deadened tone. "Do what I said. Get Alfred here, pronto. Stop Jane from going to Erik. Yeah, make her touch the globe. Have her at your house tomorrow at three." He glanced to me one more time and sighed. "And Thomas? I think you may need to call Arthur. As much as I don't want to say it, we might need his help."

"Who's Arthur?"

John pulled the car into gear and pursed his lips. His dislike was obvious, but he seemed resigned to it. "Just another jackass coming to the party."