The sun hung heavy that summer, as if the very air was being squeezed out by the oppressive heat. It was an unusual heatwave for Connecticut, the kind where the streets shimmered in the afternoon, and every breath felt like inhaling a hot, dry wind. But there was more than just weather on the horizon that week—there was a turning point in history, masked by the ordinary tragedy of an elderly couple's untimely death.
The Petersons, a frail but well-to-do couple, had lived quietly in a sprawling, sun-baked home nestled in the hills. They had an exquisite collection of artifacts, rare and priceless items passed down through generations, each piece a memory frozen in time. Among these was a relic so valuable, so significant, it would shake the art world to its core: a carved piece from the ancient city of Pacal, rumored to contain untold secrets of the long-lost civilization.
Taylor had always admired the Felix and Miranda from afar. As an art dealer, he was well-acquainted with rare pieces, but this one—the Pacal carving—was a legend in its own right. He'd heard rumors of its existence for years, but only recently did he manage to gain a connection with the couple's estate. His method was always the same: quietly, subtly, positioning himself just outside the center of every deal until he was an indispensable part of it.
When the call came that the Petersons had died, no one suspected foul play. The authorities had quickly chalked it up to a heatstroke, exacerbated by the failure of their air conditioning during the scorching wave. A sad and coincidental death, they said. But for Taylor, the circumstances felt almost... too convenient. The Petersons, nearing their end, had no heirs, no next of kin who could lay claim to the treasures they'd hoarded so carefully. Without anyone left to challenge her, Taylor was in the perfect position to step in.
He'd arranged everything—navigating the labyrinth of paperwork, pushing the right buttons in the right places, making the perfect call to ensure that the estate's lawyers were too preoccupied with the heat-induced deaths to notice her movements. They were distracted, grieving for their clients while Taylor slipped in like a shadow, his fingerprints slowly appearing on every document, every transaction. The Pacal carving would soon belong to him, by way of the Beech Hill Museum, where he'd work his magic once aga.
What wasn't immediately clear to others, though, was the timing of the AC failure. A fault in the system, yes—but one that had been conveniently ignored until it was too late. Taylor had made sure of that. A minor sabotage, a well-placed nudge in the right direction, and the Petersons' aged air conditioner had sputtered its last breath at just the wrong moment. Taylor knew that without the comfort of air, the old couple would be vulnerable to the overwhelming heat, and they had no one left to check on them. They'd be forgotten by the world—died of "natural causes" in the unrelenting summer heat.
By the time authorities arrived, the Petersons were gone, and the house was eerily quiet. The Pacal carving sat untouched, waiting to be claimed.
What followed was swift. The estate closed, and the collection was quietly transferred into the hands of collectors who could afford it. But the Pacal carving—once a sacred relic—now sat in the corner of Taylor's office, the price tag already set higher than most could imagine. He marveled at it, its smooth surface gleaming under the soft light of her lamp, as if it were somehow aware of what had transpired to bring it into his possession.
And then, with a smirk, she reached for the phone. Another connection to make. Another deal to close.
For Taylor, this wasn't just about profit. It was about control. About weaving his presence into the fabric of history, where no one would suspect the quiet dealer who had taken everything and left no trace.
So he made the deal with Joanna Riggs to have it on display there while he made plans to get the rest of the carvings to complete the key to find another groundbreaking artifact related to Pacal himself.
But nearly a decade later, an old acquaintance who also knew about the other artifact after going on the same research trip years earlier would throw a wrench in things.