Floods, what is going on? I slide through a small gap between two of the cars and take the stairs three at a time in my stilettos. As soon as I go through the blue door, a police officer walks up to me, blocking my way.

“It’s okay,” Michelle says, sounding like it’s anything but. She’s flanked by two other officers, both of whom are writing on pads. “Isadora works here.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyeing the congregation of uniformed men suspiciously. Why would they be here, too?

“There was a robbery attempt last night,” Michelle says.

If I had known San Diego was so crime-ridden, maybe I would have opted to stay with my geriatric sister Essa, who works for a library in Cairo. “What did they take?” I ask.

“They didn’t get anything, but a driver was seriously injured.”

“Wait, drivers? The delivery was attacked?”

She nods. “Right when the truck with your mother’s artifacts got here. One of the security guards was opening the back door when the driver was jumped. Fortunately we had more security on duty. They came out and the robber ran off.”

“That’s good. I mean, bad.” I shake my head. “My brother’s house was broken into just last week.” I pause, rubbing my arms against the chill that’s settled there. “Wait, you don’t think they’re connected, do you?”

One of the officers next to her, a kind-looking man with a shaved head, frowns. “Did you have anything related to the exhibit? Anything that tied you to the artifacts?”

“No.” Well, besides Sirus and me, who are genetically tied to them. And my amulets that were smashed up. But obviously no one thought they were valuable or worth stealing. “They didn’t take anything. The police figure it was some guy looking for prescription drugs.”

“Probably no connection then. Still, keep a close eye out from now on, and if you see anything weird—here or at home—let us know immediately.” He hands me his card, then leaves as another officer waves him over.

I put the card in my wallet, then look back at Michelle. “How did the robber know the truck was getting here?” We didn’t even know it would be here today. Michelle called last night after she found out what time it would arrive to make sure I was ready.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. The current theory is that whoever it was didn’t know—they must have been watching for it.”

“Who would want to steal a bunch of old crap?”

Michelle raises her eyebrows. “Isadora, you do know this exhibit is priceless, right?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. You can’t throw a rock in my house without hitting some “priceless” artifact. “Is the driver okay?”

She looks away, like she doesn’t want to answer me. “He’s in the hospital.”

I swallow against my suddenly dry throat. “Will he be okay?”

“They aren’t sure yet. Most of his major organs are failing.”

“He was shot?”

“No. They think poison, but they have no idea what.”

A shiver trails down my spine. That doesn’t sound good. None of this sounds good. I hate that the museum now feels as exposed and vulnerable as Sirus’s house, and I can’t help but think the only connection—even though it makes no sense—is me. But why would any robber think we’d store that kind of stuff in our house?

Michelle shakes her head like she’s trying to brush off the same chills plaguing my arms. “Anyway, we’re closed today, probably tomorrow, too.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“When we reopen, I’ll recruit you to help decorate the big hallway we’re converting into a new wing for the exhibit. Your mother said you’re good with design.”

A strange, warm feeling floods through me. It feels suspiciously like pride. My mother said that?

“What in the holy heck is going on?” Tyler yells from where she is being blocked entry by one of the police officers.

Waving wearily, Michelle says, “Fill her in. I’ll send out an email with more details and when we reopen.” I nod, then walk to Tyler in the entrance. She lets me take her by the elbow and escort her back outside. We sit down across the street, watching the lights from the cop cars.

“Well, I didn’t see that coming,” she says as I finish telling her everything. “But it’s really your mom’s stuff? As in, it belongs to her? Can people even own ancient Egyptian artifacts?”

I shrug, not sure how to answer. “I guess they can.”

“You guys must be, like, obscenely rich. Did you travel everywhere when you were growing up?”

“We’d go to Cairo every once in a while, and visit some of the cities around us, but it was mainly day trips to the Nile.”

“Fancy cars?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Please tell me you at least have a private jet.”

“I don’t think my parents have ever even been on a plane. The flights here were my very first time.”

“Oh, for the love. Some people should not be allowed to be rich.”

I shrug. “And apparently some people will kill to get rich.” I look back at the doors. Today the building looming over us feels vaguely sinister. Who else has been watching it, waiting? Are they still out there? Are they watching me, too?

“Yeah, that sucks for the driver. Well, I promise to think about him on our days off.” She pulls out her phone and texts furiously while I lean back and let the sun play on my face. The clouds are spotty today—it feels miraculous that there isn’t a total cover. I miss dry heat. I miss the way you can feel the air when you breathe it in, like the landscape is making you part of itself, entering you with every breath.