Chapter 4

Half a day after the photos went out, everything blew up.

The next morning, Crystal was boiling pasta when her phone suddenly rang. An unfamiliar landline number, area code from the state capital.

"Hello, is this Ms. Crystal Chavez?" The voice on the other end was fast and polite. "I'm calling from the state antiquities bureau office. We saw the photos you sent to the TV network's submission inbox. That... that object, is it still in your possession right now?"

"Object?" Crystal stood there with her chopsticks, completely lost. "You mean that cup?"

"Yes, yes, that's the one! Whatever you do, don't touch it! Don't wash it! Don't wipe it! Our expert team is already on the way. We'll be at your place in about twenty minutes!"

"Huh? An expert team?" Crystal nearly jumped. "It's just an old cup. Surely you don't need to make this big a production of it?"

"Ms. Chavez, this is extremely important! Please, you have to stay home and wait!"

She hung up and stared at the pasta rolling in the pot, her stomach in knots.

In under twenty minutes, brakes screeched downstairs.

Not one car, but three, all black, pulling up in a neat row at the entrance to her building. The doors opened, and a crowd of people got out.

Leading them was an old professor with graying hair, in a dark buttoned tunic suit, walking so fast it was almost a march. Behind him trailed several middle-aged men carrying metal cases, and a reporter with a video camera on his shoulder.

All that commotion set the whole complex buzzing.

Old Mr. Delaney, who'd been playing chess downstairs, and Mrs. Kim, just back from the market with her groceries, all crowded in.

"What's going on? They catching a fugitive?" "No idea. Looks like some big official showed up." "That's headed to old Crystal's place, isn't it?"

When Crystal opened the door and saw the dark mass of people crowding her doorway, it startled her so badly she nearly threw down the rag in her hand.

"Excuse me... which of you is Ms. Crystal Chavez?" the gray-haired old professor asked, out of breath, his forehead soaked with sweat.

"I... I am," Crystal stammered.

"Hello, I'm a researcher at the state museum. My name is Simon Finch." The old professor reached out and gripped Crystal's flour-dusted hand tightly. "The photos, we saw them. That cup... where is it?"

"It's... it's on the coffee table."

The whole group came pouring into the cramped old apartment, barely five hundred square feet. The red light on the camera blinked on, and the reporter lifted his mic to his chest, but everyone was holding their breath. Nobody said a word.

On the coffee table, that grimy cup with its few cloves of garlic sat quietly right where it was.

The big orange cat beside it hopped onto the table, sniffing curiously at the cup, tongue already halfway out to lick it.

"Oh good heavens, no!"

One of the middle-aged men behind Professor Finch cried out and lunged forward, faster than the cat itself, then jerked to a dead stop a centimeter from the cup, terrified even the rush of air might knock it over. He gently scooped the cat away, his movements as careful as if he were defusing a bomb.

"Quick, the tool kit," Professor Finch said, his voice shaking.