When Patrick arrived at the museum, a young officer stood guard by the main entrance. With pale white skin and impeccably neat short blond hair, his face was expressionless and unwelcoming.

  As Patrick approached, the officer made an almost imperceptible movement that put up a barrier between them — a slight turn of the body and a sudden tension in his stance. Patrick was to come no further.

  Patrick stopped well short of the door, staying clear of the unseen line between them.

  Patrick explained who he was and that he was expected. When he was finished, the officer gave a cold nod.

  “Wait right here. I’ll just let someone know.”

  He directed Patrick to stand further to one side while he spoke into his radio.

  Patrick stepped aside to wait.

  The morning was already viciously hot, and Patrick could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead after only a few minutes in the heat. The officer, however, showed no sign of discomfort. Standing there in full uniform and jacket, he didn’t seem to feel the heat at all — a statue carved from cold, hard marble.

  Alex arrived accompanied by a man in a loose-fitting dark blue suit and red striped tie.

  Detective Miles Johansen looked like a cop. It was an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. Even in plain clothes, there was no mistaking it.

  “Thank you for coming all this way, Mr Wilson. We appreciate you taking the time.”

  The detective extended a hand. When Patrick shook it, the grip felt like a vice.

  “Not a problem. I just hope I can be of help.”

  The detective looked up at the clear sky, dismissing Patrick.

  “Looks like it’s going to be another hot one.” From the way he spoke, it was clear no response was required.

  “Let’s head back inside and have a chat in Mr Riley’s office.”

  Without waiting, he turned and retreated into the museum’s cool interior, leaving Patrick and Alex to trail behind.

  Detective Johansen explained the situation as they walked toward Alex’s office.

  “It’s early in the investigation, but we already have a few lines of inquiry we’re following up,” he said. “We’re taking fingerprints from all possible points of entry, but so far there’s no sign of a break-in. Nothing damaged. No unexplained events in the security logs. We’ve checked with the firm that monitors the system — no indication it was tampered with.”

  Alex gave a grunt.

  “And I’m telling you again, the system had to have been tampered with. No one could’ve gotten in here without disabling it. Even the guards only patrol the perimeter. No one gets in or out of the secure areas after shutdown without triggering the alarm.”

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  He pressed the point despite the detective’s disinterest.

  “To get in after 9 p.m., you need a key, an electronic swipe card, and one of three passwords — mine or those of the other curators. Every entry is logged. If the system had been active, you’d see whose password was used. To get in without a code being recorded, the system had to be disabled or tampered with.”

  They reached Alex’s workroom.

  Patrick’s eyes fell immediately on the cabinet that had contained the cross.

  The door stood open. A fine layer of white powder coated the surface.

  The detective followed Patrick’s gaze.

  “As you can see, we’ve already gone over this room. Not much to find.”

  He gestured to the powder.

  “Any prints we’ve found will belong to Mr Riley or staff. Everyone’s being interviewed.”

  Patrick scanned the room, searching for signs of disturbance.

  Nothing had changed.

  “What else did they take?” He already knew the answer. He’d known all along.

  Alex hesitated, darting a glance toward the detective.

  “They didn’t take anything else. They only took the cross.”

  Patrick looked around again. He saw at least three items worth tens of thousands of dollars.

  “At this stage,” the detective said, “we’re fairly certain the theft wasn’t motivated by financial gain. We’re exploring other possible reasons.”

  Patrick picked up an eighteenth-century gold candelabrum studded with gems.

  “Why wouldn’t they take this? It’s pure gold.”

  The detective stared blankly.

  “There might be a reason for that.” Alex reached for some paperwork on his desk.

  “After you left yesterday, I found some information,” Alex said, handing Patrick a photocopy. “I’ve already given a copy to the detective.”

  The page showed a sketch of the cross and a detailed description of its origin.

  Alex didn’t wait for Patrick to read it.

  “It was crafted by Didier Lefévre in 1805. Commissioned by a French aristocrat named Louis Alphonse. Lefévre was brilliant — generally considered the best craftsman of the era. But his work is rare. He had a reputation for being… unstable, so not many people would hire him. Later in life, there were rumours of satanic practices and cannibalism. He eventually killed himself by jumping from the roof of Reims Cathedral.”

  Patrick waited.

  “And?”

  Alex shrugged.

  “This cross — the cross you brought in — has been lost for over 150 years. Conservative estimate: three million dollars. But that’s a guess. The right buyer might pay triple.”

  “It still doesn’t explain why they didn’t take this.” He gestured to the candelabrum. “That’s worth about 1.2 million.”

  “We are looking at other motives.”

  He fixed Patrick with a cold stare.

  “Did you tell anyone you were bringing the cross here, Mr Wilson?”

  “No. Not even Mr Potrevski.”

  “We’ll need his details.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “I’ll get them to you before I leave.”

  Patrick walked out of the museum with a stone in his stomach.

  He called Scott from the parking lot.

  “Pat, what’s happening?”

  Patrick gave him a quick rundown of everything he knew.

  “I’m heading to Potrevski’s house now. The address is in the green folder — can you read it out for me?”

  After hanging up, Patrick approached the young officer again.

  “Excuse me,” he said, holding a slip of paper. “I’ve got information for Detective Johansen.”

  The officer took it without looking at him.

  He returned to his car, feeling his mind resonate with the same disquieting stillness that he had felt when holding the Cross in his hands.

  His breath caught in his chest with the realisation that he had almost forgotten about that.

  How is that possible? He wondered.

  Such a thing should be haunting his every waking minute.

  Why wasn’t he more frightened by that? It wasn’t normal, yet after having felt it he had forgotten it almost immediately. Scott and Alex had done the same thing. He remembered it all now, for a moment, they had been lost in a haze of confusion, only to snap out of it and dismiss it as nothing. They’d all experience something strange and unexplained and then quickly forget it.

  But now the feeling had returned, or maybe it had never even left, and he was unable to shake it loose.

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