The Lost Files: The Navigator by Pittacus Lore

Author:Pittacus Lore [Lore, Pittacus]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062364012
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-04-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ONE OF THE PIECES I SOLD TO EMIR THE JEWELER—a silver necklace with a small Loralite pendant—is on display in his front window. Crayton stops to look at it before we go inside. Ella reaches a chubby fist out towards the glass.

“I probably should have saved some of these for her,” he says quietly, brushing Ella’s hair out of her eyes. “I think they were her grandmother’s.”

“She’ll be served better by safety and answers than by baubles,” I say.

He frowns a little. He’s seemed a little uneasy—unsure—since I broke the news of the photograph last night. Zophie has had the opposite reaction, of course. While Crayton and I are out selling the belongings of a man who is almost certainly dead, she’s packing our things up at the hotel.

“Come on,” I say, holding the shop door open for him.

We’ve come early, and Emir is the only person in the store, standing behind a counter in the back. He freezes when he sees me, obviously recognizing me as the woman who brought him the necklace with a stone he’d never seen before in it. His expression isn’t as excited as I’d hoped it would be, and I worry that maybe we won’t be getting as much for Raylan’s ring as I thought we would.

“You’re here,” he says as I cross the shop.

“You did say you’d be interested in any other . . . special pieces I had,” I say. I take off my backpack and start to dig out the ring.

Crayton pauses at one of the many tall jewelry cases that dot the store to point out some glittering trinket to Ella, who giggles at the sight of all the shiny objects.

Emir’s eyes go wide when he sees the child. He starts to say a few different things but stammers, never quite getting a full word out. Something about seeing Ella seems to have deeply unnerved him.

“Is everything all right?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

Emir shakes his head. I slide my hand into my coat pocket, curling my fingers around the hilt of my blaster.

He takes a few seconds to compose himself as he stares at a photo taped to the side of his computer. It’s of him and a young girl who looks to be a little older than Ella. His daughter, I assume. A bead of sweat drips from his temple, which he ignores. It’s only then that I notice the bruises—peeking out from his hairline and the collar of his shirt.

Everything suddenly seems very wrong.

“Oh, yes, the piece in the window,” he says as if I’d asked about it. He springs back to life, smiling for the first time since I walked in but in a forced, anxious way. “You’re right. The necklace is beautiful. But I’m afraid it’s not for sale. We’ve had very particular interest in that piece. Buyers who are very interested in where it came from. I’m afraid I can’t let you try it on.”

We stare at each other. His eyes flit to his right, nervously looking at something across the store.

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