Chapter One

Art doesn’t imitate life. It defines it.

That thought had occurred to Keoni Pabb dozens of times over his thirty-five years as curator at the Whitmore.

More than once, he’d voiced the idea at fundraising galas overlooking Honolulu Harbor, where plumeria scented the salty breeze. The insight had always been well received by the crowd, eager to applaud Keoni’s hard-earned art-world wisdom.

The Whitmore was known for its world-class collections of works by the European masters—Keoni had spent his career making sure of it. But the Hawaiian art had always been closest to his heart.

Born and raised in Hilo and educated at the University of Hawai‘i’s Department of Art and Art History, Keoni grew up surrounded by the stories, traditions, and artistry of his ancestors.

His grandmother, a respected weaver whose works now hung in the same museum he curated, had instilled in him a reverence for Hawaiian cultural expression that had shaped his entire career.

Despite the prestige of the European collections, he was proudest to showcase Hawaii’s vibrant art scene at the Whitmore.

Did that mean every artist on the island got a shot with him? Hardly. His high standards and his love for Hawaiian culture set him apart in the art world, and his success spoke to the effectiveness of that combination.

Now, alone in the museum’s study room just past midnight, he was hard at work reviewing the smaller pieces that would complement the exhibition’s main attractions.

At sixty-nine, Keoni’s once-athletic frame was paunchy and a little bent, showing the wear of decades spent hunched over archival tables just like this one. Lines of a life lived studying art etched his face, and his age-spotted hands were steady despite their years.

Keoni’s back protested, especially the knot developed after too many nights like this. He took a quick break—or his nightly ritual—of ibuprofen, a sip of water, and a moment of quiet before returning to work.

He grimaced at the metallic tang, which seemed stronger than usual, given the museum’s old pipes. Tomorrow, he’d finally insist they put in a new filter system. It was the least they could do.

The cheap bastards.

A few deep breaths later, he straightened his shoulders and headed back to the study room.

Keoni’s chosen theme, “Emily Dickinson’s Garden—Hawaii’s Blossoming Spirit,” paired Dickinson’s introspective verses with the vibrant beauty of Hawaii’s flora and fauna.

The theme had raised eyebrows in the art community, as poetry-inspired exhibitions weren’t exactly cutting edge.

But that challenge excited Keoni. As far as he was concerned, no exhibit could be more invigorating—or uniquely him. The undeniable power of his pairings would shock and delight Whitmore patrons.

Keoni lifted a painting of the vibrant red ‘i‘iwi bird—a piece he was considering pairing with Dickinson’s “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers.” The piece was gorgeous…but not quite right for his vision. He set it down, shaking his head.

For his final show, every selection had to sing.

“What would bring out your—”

A sour wave rolled through Keoni’s gut, sharp enough to bend him at the waist. His legs trembled as though gelatin had replaced bone. The air thickened, pressing down until every breath was an effort.

It was like swallowing a dozen martinis in one gulp, leaving his head swimming and his balance shredded. Except he’d only had a single cocktail hours ago. That couldn’t be it.

He glanced around for his glass of water, only to remember it sat abandoned in the adjoining room, since no liquids were allowed in the study room. He lurched toward his office, but the space bulged at the edges, colors bleeding as if the paintings themselves had started to melt.

Keoni steadied himself on the archival table as the world swayed like a raft adrift. Then it tilted, and he felt as though he were floating above his body.

He was having a panic attack. Not his first. Or perhaps he was finally succumbing to the exhaustion his therapist warned him about. He needed to sit, just for a moment. The paintings would still be there when—
Searing pain exploded from Keoni’s lower back. He touched the spot, and his hand came back covered in thick blood. Sticky. Redder than the ‘i‘iwi bird.

The blood’s metallic smell nauseated him further. What the hell is going on? Warm wetness spilled down his spine, soaking through his shirt and pooling at his waistband, then dripping in slow, syrupy strings to the floor.

Keoni cried out, barely managing a syllable, “No!” before an arm cinched around his throat.

A blade plunged into his back. Again. And again. Each strike was savage. Deliberate. The edge scraped vertebrae, sliced through tendon, hollowed him from the inside out.

With one final thrust, the knife tore through his side and shoved him forward over the archival table, scattering loose papers like feathers.

He gasped, blood spurting from his mouth in a hot stream. Tried to stand. To fight back. But his body twisted and crumpled, limbs twitching as he collapsed in a sticky pool.

Blood soaked his clothes, his shoes, the museum floor. His breath grew ragged and shallow, and a wet gargle escaped his throat.

As Keoni struggled to breathe, all he could see was the painting he’d decided was not good enough.

The ‘I‘iwi Sings. Oil on canvas. 2019.

The bird’s red coloring was brilliant. The sky behind was clear, bright, and blue like only Hawaii could be.

How had he dismissed the work so casually?

Keoni coughed again. More blood. As his vision narrowed, a final, piercing thought seized him. He’d die as he’d lived, surrounded by beautiful art—and completely alone.

His last coherent thought was a prayer that his blood wasn’t staining the art.

Nothing could be worse. Not even death.

Chapter Two

Special Agent Olympia Smith climbed out of an FBI-issue Ford Explorer and pulled her blond hair into a ponytail. This was her first case, and she was projecting confidence. Key word—projecting.

Olympia wasn’t unprepared. She’d graduated top of her class from Quantico. But the difference between learning about catching killers and actually showing up at the scene of the crime was massive.

Nothing a little deep breathing and a whole lot of “fake it ’til you make it” couldn’t solve.

The ocean breeze brushed a loose strand of hair off Olympia’s forehead. She took a moment to breathe in the salty Hawaii air—a familiar comfort in an unfamiliar situation.

Olympia’s childhood was a patchwork of foster homes across O‘ahu and Maui, the ocean the only constant in her life. It had taught her to adapt quickly and to always read the currents, both in the water and in the people she knew.

At twenty-four, Olympia had worked harder than most to earn her badge, overcoming doubters who said she was too young for the Bureau, without the military or job experience most special agents wore like armor. And she intended to prove them wrong.

Olympia’s partner, Cody Madison, unfolded his six-two frame from the passenger seat, his crisp button-down already showing sweat in the morning humidity.

He squinted warm amber eyes against the sunlight and ran a hand over his short dark hair, which was just long enough to show the beginnings of a wave. His bronze skin glistened in the island sun, reflecting his heritage—his grandmother on his father’s side was Black, giving him a blend of features somewhat uncommon on the islands.

At twenty-nine, Cody already had five years of field experience that showed in his confident stride. It probably didn’t hurt that he was the son of retired FBI Executive Assistant Director of Intelligence Gregory Madison II either.

Olympia had already decided she wouldn’t mention Cody’s dad unless he did. She didn’t want Cody to think she doubted his skills, especially not on the first day of a murder investigation.

Cody took a big step ahead of Olympia and led the way toward the Whitmore. “Next time, I’m driving. You rolled through way too many stops.”

Olympia grinned. Cody had been so quiet on the ride over. She’d almost been disappointed at the lack of rookie hazing, and she welcomed the opportunity for a little verbal sparring. “I’m not sure how you noticed my driving with all that Farmville you were playing.”

Cody shot an amused look over his shoulder. “The game is called Happy Valley. And I only needed fifty more pumpkins to level up.”

He waited for her to reach him, his eyes searching hers as she approached. She assumed he was assessing her, trying to decide if the rumors of perfect scores at Quantico matched the woman in front of him. “Keys?”

She tossed them to him. “No problem.”

“Wow.” He narrowed his eyes. “Based on what I’ve heard, I figured you’d put up more of a fight.”

Olympia assumed the lead in their walk toward the building. “Never judge a book by its rumors.”

Nearing the parklet beside the museum, Olympia stopped to watch a mother and daughter play on a life-size chess board. The little girl, around nine years old, laughed as she lugged an oversize rook across the squares.

Cody sidled up beside Olympia and slid his hands into his pants pockets. “This is giving me flashbacks to the last time I played against my dad. Every move I made was like dragging that life-size rook.”

“When was that?”

“Last night.” Cody grinned. “We play once a week. Well, retired FBI legend Gregory Madison II plays. I lose.”

Olympia clocked the insecurity in Cody’s voice. Interesting he’d chosen to bring up his father before she did. Probably to get ahead of her assumptions. Make it clear his dad was more “tough love” than “silver spoon.”

“Let me guess.” She didn’t take her attention off the mother-daughter pair. “You let him win, just to protect his ego?”

“No, no.” Cody laughed. “That old bastard’s just really good at chess.”

Olympia thought about the foster brother she’d met when she was eleven. Ramon. The two of them had spent three years with the Kanaheles, and nightly chess matches had been the only thing that kept them sane.

Ramon was a student at the University of Hawai‘i now, but he’d always be a little boy in her mind. He was one of the few people who really knew her at all.

Olympia smiled as the mother dragged her bishop toward her daughter’s queen, a move so obvious, it practically wore a name tag.

Silently, Olympia willed the girl to move her queen diagonally left. It would force the mom to either sacrifice her knight or watch her king get trapped. Not necessarily an intuitive move, but Olympia believed in the kid.

The little girl lifted her queen and hesitated.

Olympia saw it in the girl’s white-knuckled grip on the queen, the way the kid held her breath, the tiny glance at her mother before she moved. She wasn’t being indecisive. She was hesitating. She’d been told one too many times to be careful, polite, small.

Olympia had fought through the same hesitation every day at Quantico, surrounded by private sector recruits and West Point grads who looked at her with barely concealed disdain.

“Make the move.” She zeroed in on the little girl. Show Mom you’re not as predictable as she thinks.

The girl moved her queen diagonally left, and Olympia and Cody each pumped a fist in unison.

“Nice.” Cody nodded.

“That was a good move.” Olympia smiled and looked up at him. “You saw it too?”

“Saw it? Damn near prayed for it.”

The mother gave her daughter a high five, and the little girl beamed.

“That was really impressive,” Olympia called out, walking over. She squatted to get eye level with the girl. “You’re a smart kid, aren’t you?”

The girl’s smile showed she was missing her two front teeth. “I read at a sixth-grade level.”

Olympia laughed. “I bet you do.” She pulled a sheet of stickers from her back pocket. Just rainbows and puppies, that kind of thing. She kept the stickers on hand for moments like this, to help kids—especially girls—feel seen by someone with authority.

“You wanna pick one?” Olympia extended the stickers toward the girl, who peeled a rainbow from the sheet and stuck it on her shirt before running back to her mom.

The mom thanked Olympia as the little girl retreated shyly behind her.

“Of course.” Olympia smiled as the mother and daughter headed back toward the parking lot. She’d never known a mother’s love—not like that. But moments like this weren’t bittersweet for her. They were a reminder that her experience was the exception, not the rule, and that plenty of good still existed in the world.

Cody cleared his throat. “You ready, or do you have more stickers to give out?”

Olympia tucked the sheet back into her pocket. “Why? You want one?”

She joined him in laughter, but her smile faded when she caught sight of a young cop emerging from the museum.

Life was not all rainbows and puppies, and she feared she was about to get a stark reminder of just how dark things could get.