The roofing estimate on my clipboard was half done when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost let it ring out, but a strange instinct said pick up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Daniel Kerrigan?” The voice was raspy, like gravel dragged across pavement.

“Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“This is Victor. I run Alderwood Pawn off Hanover Street. I think I’ve got something that belongs to you.”

My irritation sharpened. “What exactly?”

“A stainless Omega Seamaster. Black dial. Inscription on the back reads, To Dan, from Dad.”

The world tilted. My hand shot to the bottom drawer of my desk, where the watch had always been wrapped in cloth behind old folders. The drawer was empty.

My chest felt like it was caving in. “Where did you get it?”

“A kid dropped it off yesterday. Said it was his. Called himself Leo.”

Of course. My stepbrother.

Victor hesitated. “You should come down here. This isn’t the kind of thing to explain over the phone.”

I grabbed my keys without another word. My coworkers shouted something after me as I stormed out, but the roar in my ears drowned it out. That watch was all I had left of my father. No property, no trust fund, no safety net—just the watch he wore until the end.

I still remembered his thin fingers unclasping it from his wrist as chemo drained him. His eyes had stayed clear even when his body was failing. “Yours now, Dan,” he whispered. “Don’t ever let it be taken.”

And I had let it slip.

Alderwood Pawn sat between a failing nail salon and a boarded-up bakery. The sign flickered, the windows barred. I pushed through the door and smelled dust, metal, and despair.

Behind the counter stood a square-shouldered man with weathered skin. “Kerrigan?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You’re the spitting image of your father,” he said, pulling out a dark green watch box. He popped it open. The Seamaster gleamed, the bezel nicked at four o’clock—a scar I remembered from when Dad slipped while fixing a railing.

My throat tightened. “Leo brought this in?”

“Tall, blonde, early twenties, cocky as hell. Said it was his inheritance.” Victor shook his head. “He couldn’t even pronounce Seamaster. That’s when I dug deeper.”

He pulled out a thin file. “Your father once pawned this himself. Sixteen years ago. Borrowed thirty-six hundred. Paid it back in a month. Cash.”

The pawn slip carried Dad’s signature. He had never told me.

Victor pressed a fingernail to a tiny groove in the clasp and a secret panel clicked open. From it, he drew a scrap of yellowing paper.

My hands shook as I unfolded it. The handwriting was unmistakable.

DANIEL, IF YOU FIND THIS, CHECK SAFE DEPOSIT BOX 407, MIDLAND TRUST. KEY IS BEHIND THE 10MM SOCKET.