Desperate, I try several more futile searches like man impervious to bullets and artifact collecting organization. Most results I get from that are either mundane or fiction. It looks like the mystery of Eden is destined to remain a mystery. My phone dings for the fifth time in a row. It’s Phoebe.

  11:00 p.m. DUDE! I can’t believe what happened yesterday

  11:01 p.m. Glad we left before the police got there!

  11:02 p.m. Orion??

  11:03 p.m. Answer!!!

  11:03 p.m. Fine bye

  Phoebe is not the sort of person who will leave you alone once she gets excited about something. I set my phone to silent and leave it on my nightstand.

  * * *

  My first alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m. The sun hasn’t risen, but I know the sky will lighten from navy to ocean blue soon. Sunrise is a familiar sight to anyone who works at a bakery, which is one of the many reasons I have for detesting my infuriating insomnia. I head to my closet to pick an outfit, silence my second alarm—there to inform me I only have fifteen minutes left to get out the door—and I leave for work.

  On my way, I roll my car window down and enjoy the feel of cool air in my lungs. Dawn is the most refreshing time of day, and it’s all mine. There’s never anyone awake in my home, few cars are on the road, and the bakery is empty. Usually, my mom arrives around 8:00 a.m. and our other employees come at 9:00. I love the solitude of the first shift, which is part of the reason I’m unhappy to see a figure leaning against the door when I arrive.

  The man’s dark hoodie hides his face, so I can’t make out who he is. I tell myself he’s probably just a customer who doesn’t know our hours, but I’m not convincing myself in the slightest. I cruise by and park around back. This is not what I signed up for when I offered to open the bakery. There’s a metal baseball bat in the trunk of my car, and that’s about all I have to defend myself with if this guy means me any harm.

  Maybe I look foolish approaching my own bakery with a baseball bat half hidden behind my back, but what else am I supposed to do? I don’t want to call the police for a situation like this. Our early-morning customer isn’t doing anything more than waiting. At least, that’s what I assure myself as I get closer to him. Not to mention my swing isn’t half bad. I could probably handle myself against a drunk thief if I had to… unless the thief was Eden from the wine bar. Which he is. I would recognize those stark, gray eyes standing out against his dark skin and black stubble anywhere. Now I feel extra foolish for bringing the bat.

  “Nice to see you again, Orion,” he says as he pushes back his hood, revealing his long, oily hair knotted into a haphazard bun. I seriously doubt he’s showered in the last several days. He still smells like the wine bar and probably several other bars on top of it. I find it difficult to believe I watched this slob kill a man in cold blood just the other night.

  I tighten my grip on the bat. “This is a strange time to be lurking around someone else’s workplace, don’t you think? What do you want?”

  He smirks at my choice of weapon, showing off the deep dimples in his cheeks. “Heard you guys make the best devil’s food cake.”

  “First of all, cute lie,” I say, glaring. He really wants me to be frightened of him. I’m determined not to give him the satisfaction. “Second of all, you’re technically loitering. I could call the police if I wanted to.”

  “Good thing for me you don’t,” he says with a wink.

  “We’ll see about that.” I hope he takes my threat seriously, but I’m also starting to loosen my grip on the bat. I doubt he’s here to hurt me. If he was, he certainly would have done it by now. I unlock the shop and tense up again as he follows me inside, whistling like this casual invasion isn’t the wordless challenge we both know it to be. “I mean it,” I say. “We don’t even open for another three hours. Come back later or I’ll call the police.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Look who’s uptight all of a sudden. Last night, he’s chasing me with a million questions, and this morning, he’s playing hard to get. Only interested in chatting with me right after I’ve killed someone, are you?”

  “Leave. If you want to talk, come back later and buy something.”

  To my surprise, he does leave. I expected him to be much harder to get rid of. To be honest, it’s a little disappointing.

  “Oriiiiiooooon!” a familiar voice shouts from up the block. When I follow the sound, I see Phoebe decked out in jogging gear, running in a diagonal line across the street like she’s just done a U-turn and beelined for the bakery. I doubt she’s craving scones that much.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask when she’s finally at my door.

  She holds up one finger, signaling me to wait while she puts her hands on her knees and pants. “I was just… on my morning jog. Saw that guy… from the bar… leaving.” She straightens up and wipes the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. “What the hell was he doing here?”

  “It was nothing. He said he wanted devil’s food cake, and I told him to come back when we’re open. Look, I’m about to start prepping for the day. You can stay and help, or we could get something to eat later.”

  “Yeah, I don’t work unless I’m getting paid.” She follows me into the shop anyway, and I don’t stop her. Phoebe will always be welcome wherever I am, no matter where I am. Whether she knows it or not is up for debate.

  She makes herself comfortable at the counter, and then I realize something. “Don’t you live like ten miles from here? Why are you jogging in this neighborhood?”

  She leans on the counter and chews her lower lip, winding her hair too tightly around her finger. “I just wanted a change of scenery.”

  “Don’t lie,” I say with my hands on my hips. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  Her shoulders tense, and she stops playing with her hair. “How?”

  “Your left eye twitches.”

  Both her eyes narrow before she forces a smile. “Whatever, O. Fine, you caught me. I knew you’d be working this morning, even though you should’ve taken the day off considering what you’ve been through. I just thought I’d stop by and see if you were okay. You didn’t answer any of my texts, so I was worried.”

  I lean over the counter and lay my hand on top of her head. “I’m good, you loser. Thanks for checking up on me.”

  She removes my hand and straightens from her slouch. “No problem. Just don’t ghost me again.” Having done her best-friend duty, she whirls around and marches out the door. Before I can close it behind her, she shouts back, “If that guy bothers you again, let me know, and I’ll take care of it. And by take care of it, I mean punch him in his stupid, smug face.”

  “Thanks, Phoebs.” I smile after her. “You’re one of a kind.”

  The day goes by quickly, and many items sell out. Usually, we don’t get much business from outside Mobile, but today, we receive quite a few tourists wanting to try our celebrated cinnamon rolls. They’re from all over—the tourists, not the cinnamon rolls—Germany, France, and Australia. I’ve never left the country, so I’m fascinated whenever I meet people from different parts of the world.

  That evening, while I’m sweeping the kitchen, our youngest cashier, a high school senior named Rebecca, calls me to the front. I put the broom down and head out to meet her. “Did you need something?” That’s when I see Eden Dowler, hunched over the counter with his fingers interlocked.

  Rebecca approaches and mutters, “This guy asked for you specifically.”

  Eden’s long black coat hangs off the back of his chair like an ill omen. I decide to send Rebecca away. There’s no reason for her to get involved in this. “Hey, Becca, prep the kitchen for tomorrow, will you?” That should keep her busy.

  She hesitates, twisting her black hair over her shoulder. As she passes me, she leans close and stage-whispers, “Okay, but that man is choice. Give him my number if he asks.” She chuckles and adds, “Give it to him even if he doesn’t.”

  Eden raises his eyebrows and his smile reaches both dimples. If Rebecca knew this guy was a cold-blooded killer, she wouldn’t be so interested. Or maybe she would. What the hell do I know about women? “I’d like two fudge brownies and a glass of milk, please,” Eden says. “Also, I would like to chat.”

  “What about?” I try to keep my voice steady despite the thrill of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I can’t tell whether it’s fear or excitement.

  He lays both hands on the counter in a gesture I think is supposed to show he’s unarmed. “I just have a few questions. We can do this the easy way, or I can break one bone for every question you refuse to answer. Either way, I’ll get the information I’m looking for.”

  Weapons are unnecessary for guys like him, apparently. Though, the threat was equally unnecessary. I’d have answered either way. I’m sure I’m even more curious about him than he is about me. Anyway, it’s highly unlikely he’d start something here with little to gain from my death. There’s a gun under the counter, but as he’s already demonstrated, guns aren’t much good against him.

  I plate two brownies, pour a glass of milk, and set them in front of him. I can’t help feeling amused that this professional killer has just ordered the kind of treat a child would prefer. Maybe he has a hard life and just craves a little nostalgia. “That’ll be six dollars and thirty-two cents,” I tell him. “Take a seat, and I’ll join you in a second.”

  “Good.” He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  He takes his plate and milk to a table by the window. I pour myself a decaf coffee and join him. It’s difficult to believe I’m sitting across from an honest-to-god assassin. Life is rarely as predictable as I’d like it to be. “So… what did you want to talk about?”

  Before he begins, he inhales one brownie and chugs half the milk. “Excellent bake,” he says as though he’s some kind of connoisseur. “No wonder this place is so popular.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out some rolled-up sheets of paper. “First, let me reintroduce myself. My name is Eden Dowler. I’m the guy who murdered a man right in front of you, and you’re the guy who doesn’t seem to give a shit about it.”

  Is he serious? Of course I give a shit about it. I’m just not planning to run screaming every time he shows up in my bakery. I find him more fascinating than frightening, to be honest.

  He unrolls and smooths his papers on the table between us. “Correct me if I’m wrong. It says here your name’s Orion Carter Bachman, this is your family’s bakery, and you’re just trying to earn your tuition so your mother doesn’t have to foot the bill, not that she couldn’t afford it.”

  “Where did you get that information?”

  “From the internet, genius,” he says. “For a guy with two bachelor’s degrees, a master’s in engineering, and a Ph.D. in the works, you seem kind of dense.”

  “Well, excuse me for not predicting I’d be cyber-stalked by a contract killer for no apparent reason,” I snap back.

  His smile fades. “I’m not a contract killer. Let’s just cut to the chase. According to the information I have, you seem like a solid kid—athletic, intuitive, genuine—and you seem to think things all the way through. At the counter a minute ago, when I threatened you, I could tell you played the situation out in your head before deciding on a course of action.”

  I don’t understand what he’s getting at. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  My foot starts involuntarily tapping under the table. “Well, I should probably reassess my situation now, shouldn’t I? There seems to be a good chance I’ve gotten myself into trouble with a guy who can’t be shot and kills people without thinking twice about it.”

  He shakes his head. “Trust me. I don’t go around killing people for no good reason.”

  I force my foot to still. “Yeah, sure.”

  He sits back and calmly finishes his milk. Then he wipes his mouth and says, “Has anyone in your family ever mentioned ancient artifacts to you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them. “Orion, you seem like an honest guy. All I want to know is whether you’ve heard anyone in your family mention an artifact or its history? And don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  I shrug. What would happen if I just refused to answer him? He seems to know he’s in control here. But there must be some reason he needs me, something he’s still not telling me. And if he needs something from me, maybe I have some leverage.

  He notices my hesitation and groans. “If you like, we can play tit for tat. I can tell you all about myself—what I do for a living, blah blah blah, and why I’m in Mobile. I can tell you about my family, but they’re not very interesting. Very boring people. I’ll bet your family is way more interesting than mine.”

  He’s not even trying with me. It’s a little insulting, honestly. Probably, he knows I’ll answer his questions regardless. I want to know more about him—I need to know more about him—and the only way I’m going to get anywhere with him is by giving him the information he wants. Tit for tat. “Well… my dad was extremely Catholic. I remember hearing stories about him traveling to holy places and such. Does that count?”

  At the mention of my dad, Eden’s frown deepens. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out an old, abused photograph. When he unfolds it and passes it to me, my breath catches. “This your father?” he asks.

  I don’t know how to answer him. The fact that he has a picture of my dad unnerves me. It shouldn’t, considering all the other information he has, but this feels different. He didn’t pull this picture from his stack of papers. He pulled it from his pocket, like he’d been keeping it there for a long, long time. “How do you know my dad?”

  He glares down at the photo. “I don’t. That’s the whole point. But I know enough about him to guess that he wouldn’t have stayed with your mother so long unless she had something he was looking for.”

  I feel my cheeks redden. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming at him. “You don’t know shit about my dad.”

  “I know he’s dead.”

  At that, an image of my dad’s dead body flashes through my mind. It’s a memory I’d give almost anything to lose—his yellowing skin, his lifeless blue eyes staring off at nothing. All the light had gone from him. He didn’t look like Dad. He didn’t even look like a person anymore. I clear my throat and shake the memory off. “Anyone could know that.”

  “I know he spent time in Egypt.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “And fucked a woman in Cairo.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Eden cocks his head like he’s surprised I haven’t put two and two together. “I know he left the Egyptian woman to deal with her pregnancy alone because she didn’t have what he wanted. Apparently, what he wanted was in Mobile with a family called Bachman. So he came here and seduced a woman who was definitely more valuable to him than my mother, considering how long he stayed.”

  All of a sudden, my blood goes cold. His mother? His mother? Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Do I even dare ask?

  He leans in and murmurs. “I bet I know your father even better than you do, don’t I? This is all such a shock to you, and it wasn’t even surprising to me. The father you thought you knew—the one who stuck around, read you bedtime stories, and went to all your baseball games—was a mask, a fake. The father I knew—the one who fucked a girl, left her to die alone, and never even bothered to check in on the child to, you know, make sure it wasn’t homeless or anything—was the piece of shit behind the mask.”

  From the photo in my hand, a much younger version of my dad stares back at me. I look up at Eden and down again. I can almost see it—the dimples, the gray eyes, little mannerisms of his—but I can’t seem to process it fully. Has my entire life been one big lie? All those warm nights, the reassuring talks, the way Dad looked at Mom. There’s no way he didn’t love her. I don’t believe he was just using her. What if I’m being lied to right now? What if Eden is only manipulating me? He must be. This is impossible. I’ve always been an only child. Dad never mentioned anything about me having a—

  Eden slaps the table and stands. “Well, I’ll be in touch. You’ll try and find out whether your family’s been hiding an artifact, won’t you? I know you will.” He winks.

  Numbly, I hand back the photo.

  “Keep it,” he says. “I’ll come back for it later.” He starts to put on his coat, pauses, and then holds up a finger. “Hang on.” He digs in his coat pocket and pulls out an old flip phone. “Keep this on you at all times.” When I fail to take the phone from him, he grabs my wrist, shoves it into my hand, and closes my fingers around it.

  I stare down at the phone the same way I stared down at that photo of my dad. “What do I do with this?”

  One corner of his mouth turns up. “You answer it, genius.” He buttons his coat and pockets his rolled-up stack of papers. “Oh, and I’ll have one of my comrades tail you and your family for your own protection. Don’t freak out when you see him.”

  “Am I… Am I in danger?”

  His answer is matter-of-fact. “Possibly. I’ve got to lie low for a bit. I’ll reach out to you again when things have calmed down. It’s likely your family is hiding an artifact. The sooner you find it and hand it over, the safer they’ll be.”

  “So my family’s in danger now too?”

  “They always were. It started the day our father waltzed into their lives. Listen, the best way to protect your family is to get rid of the artifact. It’s a hot potato, so pass it on. Let me deal with it. That’s what I do.” He’s all business, serious as an executioner, until, suddenly, he grins and claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Orion. You’ll be fine.”