Chapter 2: Sold to the Highest Bidder

Then he pulled out a pair of red embroidered shoes—tiny, the kind made for bound feet back in the old days.

He unwrapped them from a piece of yellowed linen, laying them gently on the counter between us. My eyes widened. These were something else entirely. Not only were they ancient, but the soles were carved from pale jade, the uppers stitched from rare silk, and the two big red flowers on top sewn with golden thread.

I leaned in closer, holding my breath. The craftsmanship was stunning, the embroidery so fine I doubted anyone alive could match it now.

My eyes widened. For a second, I just stared. No question—I was taking those shoes, no matter the price.

The man’s shoulders slumped in relief, like he’d been carrying a burden for miles.

I thought it was odd, but I was so thrilled by the find that I didn’t let myself dwell on it—couldn’t risk second-guessing a score like this.

That night, I called up a buyer.

I planned to sell the shoes to Curtis Ellsworth, the local real estate mogul.

Curtis had money to burn, and he had a thing for antique women’s items.

According to Curtis, he was tired of modern women—he was obsessed with the mystique of the past.

He’d come into the shop before, always with a half-smile and a story—never failed, I swear. The only way he felt close to those long-gone ladies was through these old objects.

Over the years, Curtis had bought dozens of pieces from me—everything from pearl hairpins to hand mirrors.

When I texted him a photo of the shoes, his eyes practically lit up.

Ignoring the pouring rain, he drove over in his Cadillac right away.

The headlights cut through the storm as he pulled up, umbrella forgotten as he hustled inside, eyes glued to the shoes. In the end, I sold the shoes to Curtis for ten times what I’d paid.

He even tossed in an extra grand—just for good measure—telling me that if I ever got anything like this again, I should call him first.

I grinned and promised, “Of course.” My heart was still pounding.

Who’d have guessed that the very next day, someone from the Ellsworth family would show up at my door to say Curtis was dead.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I was stunned. For a second, my mind went blank. Could it be... the shoes?

No way. I didn’t sense anything off about them yesterday.

But they wouldn’t listen, and before I knew it, they’d hauled me to the Ellsworth house.

It was the old Ellsworth mansion on the hill, with its wraparound porch and creaking floors—the kind of place where secrets settle into the corners like dust. As soon as I walked in, I spotted a man in an old-fashioned preacher’s coat sitting in the living room, looking troubled.

His coat was faded and ornate, clearly passed down through generations. He looked legit, no doubt about it.

The preacher was polite. After the Ellsworths let me go, he greeted me with a nod.