Sitting right on top was the exact emerald-encrusted chalice I had just watched rotating in high-definition on my television screen.
The “Tear of Antioch,” a Byzantine relic stolen from a heavily guarded private collection in Geneva just three weeks ago. The documentary narrator’s voice echoed in my head: Estimated value on the black market… fourteen million dollars.
My hands shook violently as I lifted it. It was incredibly heavy, the solid gold cold against my sweating palms. I pushed the chalice aside and dug deeper into the small cardboard box. Beneath it, there wasn’t the usual estate sale detritus—no tarnished soup spoons or broken ceramic cats. Instead, I found a black velvet pouch, a meticulously forged Belgian passport bearing my roommate’s face under the name “Lukas Van Der Berg,” and a flash drive.
The sickening realization hit me like a freight train.
Max wasn’t a hoarder. He wasn’t a delusional, compulsive buyer of junk. He was a high-level black-market antiquities fence using our cramped, rent-controlled apartment as a blind. All those weekends he spent dragging in boxes of “worthless” clutter were an elaborate cover. He was hiding stolen historical artifacts in plain sight, layering the bottom of the boxes with priceless treasures and topping them with absolute garbage so I wouldn’t look twice.
And I had kicked him out.
I scrambled for my phone, frantically dialing his number.
“The number you have reached is no longer in service.”
Panic clawed at my throat. If Max had left a fourteen-million-dollar relic behind in his rush to vacate, it meant one of two things: he was coming back for it with reinforcements, or the people he stole it from were already closing in, and he had fled to save his own skin.
I stared at the chalice, the massive green jewels winking maliciously in the dim light of my living room. I wasn’t just sitting on a fortune; I was holding a homing beacon for international art thieves and the FBI.
Suddenly, the harsh, electronic buzz of the apartment intercom shattered the silence. I froze.
“Package delivery for Max,” a gruff voice crackled through the speaker. It was 11:30 PM.
I looked down at the chalice, then at the forged passport. Max hadn’t forgotten the box in his rush. He had abandoned it on purpose. He needed a fall guy, a patsy to take the heat while he slipped out of the country under a new identity. I hadn’t kicked him out; I had played right into his hands, giving him the perfect excuse to leave the evidence in my closet.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots began echoing up the stairwell. I grabbed the box, shoved the chalice inside, and looked frantically toward the fire escape.
