Chapter 1 · Six Digits Under The Glaze

Chapter 1

To keep her ego inflated at her wedding, I blow half a month's rent on her gift, handing over a three-thousand-dollar check only to get a secondhand mug in return.

I spend the next three years calling her a backstabbing leech, blocking her number, and cutting her out of my life for good.

But today, while I'm packing up my apartment, that piece of junk rolls out of a box again.

I'm ready to smash it into a million pieces just to vent, but the weight of it stops me cold. It's way too heavy.

It has that unmistakable, dense pull of pure gold buried under the ceramic.

With shaking hands, I scrape away the thick glaze on the bottom until a carved address and a six-digit code stare back at me.

My heart starts hammering against my ribs.

*****

I stared at the tiny inscription, my mind buzzing.

The address was for a self-storage facility in the old part of town.

The six digits looked like a passcode.

The blade of my box cutter was still pressed against the mug's side. Where I had scraped away a flake of the ceramic finish, a brilliant, almost blindingly yellow glint of metal shone through.

This wasn't gold-plated.

I pressed down harder, the sound of metal scraping against metal grating in the silent room.

This was solid gold.

My hands started to shake with a sickening horror instead of excitement.

This piece of junk I had despised for three years was a solid gold ingot, disguised as a worthless mug.

I scrambled to look up the current price of gold, guesstimating the weight.

It was worth at least fifteen grand.

Three years ago, my best friend, Fiona Brooks, got married. I gave her a three-thousand-dollar check, and she gave me a golden mug worth fifteen grand.

And I, in front of everyone, had tossed it into a cardboard box full of junk.

"Are you kidding me, Fiona?" I snapped. "A used cup? Do I look like a beggar to you?"

I could still see the look on her face.

She didn't flare up in anger, nor did she offer a single word of defense. Her eyes just welled up, and she looked down, her gaze almost pleading.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, "Jenny, this is the most precious thing I own. Please, just keep it safe for me."

All I felt was pure humiliation.

My salary was just over five grand a month, so three grand was a huge sacrifice.

I had her back at the wedding. When her social-climbing husband, Scott Guy, brought his whole freakshow family with him, I verbally tore every single one of them apart for her.

They called her family "new money" because they had gotten a payout when their neighborhood was redeveloped, claiming she wasn't good enough for Scott, their precious "top university graduate."

I shut them all down, defending her, making sure she got through the night.

And what did I get in return?

She handed me a piece of garbage to humiliate me.

I cut her out of my life. I blocked her number, methodically scrubbing her from every app.

Thinking back on it now, I was a complete and utter fool.

I was paralyzed by this crushing weight of guilt. I could barely breathe.

I sank to my knees on the floor, tears streaming down my face.

I had misjudged her for three years. I had cursed her name for three years.

How could I have so carelessly dismissed something she called "the most precious thing"?

I scrubbed at my face, forcing my eyes to refocus on the numbers on the bottom of the mug.

The six digits must be the passcode.

I reached for my phone, my fingers shaking as I pulled up the encrypted memo.

I typed in Fiona's birthday. My access was denied.

Scott's birthday was highly improbable.

I tried their wedding anniversary. But it was still wrong.

What was the code?

My eyes scanned the messy room, finally landing on an old photo album.

I flipped it open. The first picture was of us on graduation day, grinning in front of our old dorm room.

The room number on the door was perfectly clear: 402.

Our university's zip code was 90210. The last three digits were 210. Coupled with 402, it was exactly six digits.

I took a shaky breath and entered the number into the storage facility's app under the "guest access" option.

A green checkmark flashed on the screen.

The code was accepted.

My heart stopped.

What was Fiona trying to tell me?

Chapter 1

To keep her ego inflated at her wedding, I blow half a month's rent on her gift, handing over a three-thousand-dollar check only to get a secondhand mug in return.

I spend the next three years calling her a backstabbing leech, blocking her number, and cutting her out of my life for good.

But today, while I'm packing up my apartment, that piece of junk rolls out of a box again.

I'm ready to smash it into a million pieces just to vent, but the weight of it stops me cold. It's way too heavy.

It has that unmistakable, dense pull of pure gold buried under the ceramic.

With shaking hands, I scrape away the thick glaze on the bottom until a carved address and a six-digit code stare back at me.

My heart starts hammering against my ribs.

*****

I stared at the tiny inscription, my mind buzzing.

The address was for a self-storage facility in the old part of town.

The six digits looked like a passcode.

The blade of my box cutter was still pressed against the mug's side. Where I had scraped away a flake of the ceramic finish, a brilliant, almost blindingly yellow glint of metal shone through.

This wasn't gold-plated.

I pressed down harder, the sound of metal scraping against metal grating in the silent room.

This was solid gold.

My hands started to shake with a sickening horror instead of excitement.

This piece of junk I had despised for three years was a solid gold ingot, disguised as a worthless mug.

I scrambled to look up the current price of gold, guesstimating the weight.

It was worth at least fifteen grand.

Three years ago, my best friend, Fiona Brooks, got married. I gave her a three-thousand-dollar check, and she gave me a golden mug worth fifteen grand.

And I, in front of everyone, had tossed it into a cardboard box full of junk.

"Are you kidding me, Fiona?" I snapped. "A used cup? Do I look like a beggar to you?"

I could still see the look on her face.

She didn't flare up in anger, nor did she offer a single word of defense. Her eyes just welled up, and she looked down, her gaze almost pleading.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, "Jenny, this is the most precious thing I own. Please, just keep it safe for me."

All I felt was pure humiliation.

My salary was just over five grand a month, so three grand was a huge sacrifice.

I had her back at the wedding. When her social-climbing husband, Scott Guy, brought his whole freakshow family with him, I verbally tore every single one of them apart for her.

They called her family "new money" because they had gotten a payout when their neighborhood was redeveloped, claiming she wasn't good enough for Scott, their precious "top university graduate."

I shut them all down, defending her, making sure she got through the night.

And what did I get in return?

She handed me a piece of garbage to humiliate me.

I cut her out of my life. I blocked her number, methodically scrubbing her from every app.

Thinking back on it now, I was a complete and utter fool.

I was paralyzed by this crushing weight of guilt. I could barely breathe.

I sank to my knees on the floor, tears streaming down my face.

I had misjudged her for three years. I had cursed her name for three years.

How could I have so carelessly dismissed something she called "the most precious thing"?

I scrubbed at my face, forcing my eyes to refocus on the numbers on the bottom of the mug.

The six digits must be the passcode.

I reached for my phone, my fingers shaking as I pulled up the encrypted memo.

I typed in Fiona's birthday. My access was denied.

Scott's birthday was highly improbable.

I tried their wedding anniversary. But it was still wrong.

What was the code?

My eyes scanned the messy room, finally landing on an old photo album.

I flipped it open. The first picture was of us on graduation day, grinning in front of our old dorm room.

The room number on the door was perfectly clear: 402.

Our university's zip code was 90210. The last three digits were 210. Coupled with 402, it was exactly six digits.

I took a shaky breath and entered the number into the storage facility's app under the "guest access" option.

A green checkmark flashed on the screen.

The code was accepted.

My heart stopped.

What was Fiona trying to tell me?