Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

JAKE

Message from ASSHOLE

Tick-tock.

The last few days have been a blur of working on my graphic novel, doing work for the Love Fixers, and preparing for tonight. I've done drive-bys of Anthony's two-story arts and crafts house in North Asheville—the swanky part, different from where the apartment building is located. The houses there have gone all out with decorating for Halloween, and one house has so many realistic skeletons and zombies in their yard it's obvious they dislike children and would love to give them nightmares. Anthony's house doesn't even have a single carved pumpkin on its stoop.

I've also studied the house on Google Maps so I can eye the layout and identify the best entry point—in the back, away from the neighbors' prying eyes—and the best place to leave our vehicle: the parking lot at a trailhead located behind their home.

Now, it's time to put that knowledge to use, even if I feel a little…hesitant.

I haven't taken anything that's not mine for months.

Staying at the cabin this last week, I've dared to think about what a different kind of life might be like. A life in which I can feed my need for adrenaline by helping people instead of harming them.

I pace until the floorboards creak beneath me. I'd fix them, but I don't know how. My whole life, no one's ever taught me to fix anything. Only how to take.

It's a thought that makes me pace harder, until I Google how to fix creaking floorboards and find an answer too complicated to wrap my restless brain around. Professor X is as twitchy as I am, pacing beside me, mewing enough that I feed her a second breakfast she doesn't touch.

I tell myself it's always like this before I steal something.

But I know the truth: part of me doesn't want to find the real Heart of the Mountain. Because once I do, this will all be over.

Elaine has told me multiple times that Damien and Nicole will help me, but I'm unconvinced. At the end of the day, she's their friend and Mrs. Rosings is her boss. They might convince her to do the right thing and return the necklace to the old lady. Still, I don't know if I have it in me to steal it out from under her and leave without a word.

A part of me also recognizes that stealing Mrs. Rosings's necklace is only a temporary solution to a much larger problem. I don't think Roark is just going to let us wander off into the good night and do our thing.

He doesn't want to let us go.

This whole mess is about him not accepting my choice.

We're important to him, although not for the reasons I let myself believe once.

Even if I'm able to convince Ryan that we have to both go legit, Roark's going to find a way to tug us back in. And, if I'm very unlucky, he might find out that I care about Elaine and decide he wants to use her against me too.

You're falling in love with her.

The thought passes through my mind like fluff from a blown dandelion, catching and sticking, ready to sprout five hundred new dandelions like a pestilence. It should be impossible. A man shouldn't be able to fall in love with a woman he's known for two weeks.

Leave it to me to go my whole life without falling in love with a woman and then to leap into it like I'm cliff-jumping, without any sense of survival.

When my phone rings at around four with a call from Anthony Rosings Smith, it almost comes as a relief. I'm so desperate to talk to anyone that he'll do.

I nearly fumble the phone in my need to answer it.

"Hey, man, what's up?" I say, continuing to pace across the living room floor, the creaks and squeaks rising up in the same places with each pass.

"I was wondering if you could get a drink tonight instead of tomorrow." He sounds like I feel—hopped up on nerves and adrenaline, which stirs my curiosity. Did he find the necklace in his fiancée's things? If he did, would he tell a guy he'd known for three weeks?

Here's to hoping.

"What time?" I ask, my brow furrowing. Elaine and I are supposed to break into his house tonight. Does this mean he's cancelled his plan to attend that god-awful play with his mother and fiancée?

He swears under his breath. "There's somewhere I need to be at seven. I don't suppose…"

"I'm free," I say. Glancing at the wall clock—4 p.m.—I say, "My last client just left. Where do you want to go, the peanut bar?"

His laugh rumbles across the line. "You must think I'm absurd, choosing a place like that."

"Maybe you just have a thing for peanuts. I hear they're popular with jelly."

"I don't. It's… There's something I have to get off my chest, and I don't want to be overheard by anyone I know."

"So not a lot of peanut fans in your life, got it," I say.

He pauses, and I can practically hear his crank turning on the other side of the line. "You're still seeing my mother's assistant."

I nod, then realize he can't very well see me. "I am."

"Can you keep this—"

"You don't even need to say the words. I'm a therapist. Confidentiality is the name of the game."

I say it without a stutter, feeling like a real shithead as the words come out. But I need that necklace to save my brother, and no one in his family seems to actually care about it except as a belonging to put in a box—a show of power and money. Besides, I have every intention of giving him solid advice, or as solid as someone who's been a career criminal for most of their life can offer—unless he's about to ask me if he should bring the stolen necklace to the play and slip it into his mother's bag.

"Thank you. I mean it."

"I'll see you there in fifteen minutes, man."

" Thank you ," he repeats, then ends the call.

My heart is thumping hard, because this could be it. This could be over tonight. I could be on a flight back to New York by midnight…

It could all be over.

Suddenly it feels like the ground's dropping from beneath my feet. I don't want to leave. I definitely don't want to leave and not come back, but that's the preferred method of leaving the scene of a crime.

I slump down, sitting where I was standing, and Professor X stalks up and then curls up in my lap. "I don't know what to do about any of this," I tell her.

She gives me the kind of unimpressed look I'm used to getting from her now-owner, then meows.

No one's ever thought to teach me cat, but a stopped clock is right twice a day, and I know what she's saying: Yes, you do.

I could trust Elaine and take Damien and Nicole into my confidence. I could tell them everything and let the chips fall as they may. I could do that.

But panic presses in on me again, because this isn't just about trusting them with my fate and Ryan's. If I tell them everything, they could throw it down with Roark, and they could lose.

If I tell them, I could be putting them—and especially her—in danger.

Only…based on what she said, she thinks there's a very strong possibility that Nicole and Damien will learn everything anyway. Wouldn't it be better to be the one to tell them myself? Maybe, if I do, they'll allow me a role in deciding what happens next.

Sucking in air slowly, I try to breathe steadily—in and out, in and out—and when I'm no longer dancing on the edge of panic, I text Elaine:

Sounds like the play's still on, but Anthony asked to move drinks up to tonight. I'm guessing he's about to tell me something important and probably relevant. Meet you at the spot at 7?

We've already discussed the best strategic place to leave her car so we can get in and out of Anthony's house without being seen. Now, we'll leave both cars there.

I see a few dots ripple across the screen before disappearing. It happens again, then again, and finally her answer pops up.

OK.

I glance at Professor X, who's pawing my shirt. "Got any insight into that?"

This time her meow is distinctly just a meow.

I tell myself it's nothing. Elaine is hopped up on nerves and adrenaline just like I am. But my gut doesn't like it.

I should probably decide what to do before I leave the house, but I don't. The only strategy I have is the one that's gotten me this far in my sorry life—jumping in the deep end and hoping like hell I remember how to swim.

When I get to the peanut bar, Anthony's already there, sitting in a booth with a couple of beers, which is a first. The last time we were here, he got white wine. I guess it was bad enough that he didn't want to go in for a second round, which isn't a shocker. Getting wine from a place like this is like going to a restaurant called Fried Freddies and ordering a salad. In a nod to the holiday, there are a couple of uncarved pumpkins sitting on top of the bar, plus circus peanuts sitting in a skeleton bowl on the counter. Judging from the height of the pile, no one's gone in for one, and I won't be the first.

I join Anthony, grinning. "Is one of those for me, or is the situation bad enough that you're double-fisting on a Thursday?"

His smile is barely a quirk of the lips as he pushes one of the beers across the table. I sit. I drink.

"What's on your mind?" I ask after he's silent for a solid thirty seconds.

"It's about Nina."

I try not to lean forward in my seat. "Oh? Are you two having problems?"

He glances around, confirms most of the people he knows wouldn't be caught dead here, and also that the bartender doesn't give a shit about anything but pounding down peanuts and whatever he's watching on his phone, and says, "My father never thought much of me. He…he died young, but he'd already made a will."

He pauses, takes a drink of the beer.

"I have a trust…a trust with a lot of money in it, but I don't gain full access to it until I'm thirty-four, the age my father was when he ‘built his empire.' Everything was symbolic with him."

"You don't seem to be hurting financially," I point out.

"No," he says with a bitter smile. "I get an allowance from the trust. I'm a thirty-three-year-old man with an allowance. "

"What's the catch?" I ask, because if there wasn't one, we wouldn't be here.

He glances at the bored bartender again before saying, "I have to be married by the time I'm thirty-four. That's the only way I'll get full access. If I'm not married, I'll lose it—and the business deal I've been working on for six months goes down the drain."

I whistle. "Does your sister get the same deal?"

"No," he says tightly. "She had a smaller trust, but it's all hers. He thought I was weak and would need to tether myself to someone stronger to succeed. He gave my mother full veto power over my bride."

"Ah." Only…Mrs. Rosings has made it very fucking clear she doesn't want Anthony to marry Nina, so why hasn't she exercised this supposed veto power?

"I can see you're wondering why she hasn't said no," he says with a grunt. "After my father died, she promised me she'd never use that clause against me."

"You're worried she'll change her mind," I comment.

"No." He runs his finger over the condensation on his glass of beer. "I mean…maybe she will, but that's not what I'm really worried about. I'm worried she's right. Nina knows about my father's will. We started seeing each other right after Christmas, and it was casual. It was fun . We went to amusement parks and shitty restaurants and dive bars. She didn't know who I was, not really, and I didn't know much about her other than that she wasn't really career-driven. But we got drunk one night, and I told her about my father's will and my birthday coming up in January. Less than a year away. She's the one who said she'd marry me to help me gain the trust. So we got engaged, and all of this was set in motion, and she's changed ."

"Do you have a prenup?" I ask.

A corner of his mouth lifts. "My mother's right. Nina's marrying me for the money, but I'm marrying her for the money too." He turns the glass around in his hand, takes a long pull before saying, "There's no prenup. There's no money if there's no wedding. That's something else we agreed on."

He must see the doubt on my face because he snorts and says, "It's not just the business deal that gets buried if I don't get the money. The company will die, and I'll go down in Marshall history as the Smith who lost it all ."

"Where does the money go if it doesn't go to you?"

"Causes I don't particularly believe in. Insult to injury. He knew what he was doing."

"He knew what causes you supported as a twelve-year-old?" I ask doubtfully.

"He knew what causes my mother didn't support. Anything to drive a wedge between people."

I genuinely feel for him. I may not have ever known my father, but it's easier to guess that your old man's a dick who doesn't care about you than to spend your life in the shadow of that knowledge. Then again, the only semi-parent I had besides foster parents who came and went like the wind is currently holding my brother hostage.

"Well, shit," I say. "That's a hard pill to swallow."

"I don't know what to do," he admits, sitting back. "If I don't marry her, I'm fucked, but I'm starting to think that if I do marry her—"

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," I agree.

Based on what he's told me, he definitely had motivation to steal that necklace, but I don't think he'd be sitting here with me if he had it.

It's still possible Nina has it.

This confirms she's definitely motivated by money. She probably doesn't want to marry him any more than he wants to marry her—and it's possible she took the necklace and is only sticking around because she's worried the person who replaced it might figure out it was her.

"But it's too late to find anyone else," he says, slumping back. My birthday's in two and half months."

"You could find someone else who'd do it for the money, but then you'd sort of be in the same fix. You said she's changed… how has she changed?"

He runs a hand across his mouth. "We used to have fun together, but that changed a couple of months after we got engaged. She stopped hanging out with her old friends, and the places we used to go weren't good enough anymore. It's all about the money now. What we're going to do with it. What house we're going to buy until we can move into Smith House. That kind of thing." He pauses. Swallows. "She's…her parents aren't in her life. She said it was her choice. I hoped planning the wedding would bring her and my mother closer together, but Nina's handed off everything to my mom, who's done her best to make it as awful as possible to get a reaction. Nina hates her, obviously, but she hasn't fought back. She doesn't really care about the wedding. She doesn't care about me either…all she wants is her piece, same as everyone else. She'll never love me, and I'm starting to think…" He pauses again. "I don't even like her anymore. She's jealous whenever I talk to another woman, but everything I do is wrong, and she never wants to touch me anymore." He laughs without the slightest bit of humor. "It's like my father hand-picked her for me, if you want to know the truth. He'd love the irony."

He looks really torn up, and even though I'd also like several million dollars, I feel bad for him. I've seen this before, with Dale—how being rich can be as isolating as being poor. I feel another surge of sympathy for him.

"Are you asking me what to do?" I ask.

His lips turn up again. "I don't know," he admits. "I guess I just needed to get it off my chest. I'm not sure there's much I can do, unless I'm willing to let the company fold. That's what my sister Emma thinks I should do. She's a divorce attorney, for fuck's sake, and she thinks I'm worse than an idiot for agreeing to no prenup. But I can't do it. I can't be the one who ruins everything. It's not just about the Smith family legacy—I've got hundreds of people working for me. They're counting on me to get it right."

"You could still find someone else to marry," I insist.

"Why bother?" he asks, his tone falling into bitterness. "Why exchange one gold digger for another?"

Some fanciful part of me, awakened by Lainey, wants to tell him it would be a fuck-ton better to marry a woman you could possibly love than to marry a woman you absolutely know you can't. But I sense logic will work better with him, so I say, "But you don't have to be in a relationship with the person you marry. You could hire someone to be your wife. Get your sister to pull together an ironclad prenup and pay the woman a set fee. There are plenty of women who'd be willing to do it."

He rubs his head as if this idea hadn't occurred to him. "What would people think if I got married so soon after ending an engagement?" he asks after a moment.

I shrug. "Probably that you're an asshole, but I'm going to be honest with you, plenty of people already think that."

Surprised laughter gusts from him, and he shakes his head slightly as he smiles at me. "This is why I like you, Jake. You're willing to be honest with me. I can't say that about a lot of people."

It's my own bitter pill, and I swallow it.

"Think it through," I say. "I may know someone who can help you if that's the way you want to go. You've already got the wedding planned. All you'd need to do is sub out the bride."

Maybe this is a job for the Love Fixers. It's possible Lainey is only interested in helping women who've been wronged, but if we're going to screw this guy over by finding and taking the real Heart of the Mountain, the least we can do is soothe the scratch.

He nods slowly. "I will." Then he takes out his phone and sighs. "I've got to go. I'm going to the community theater with my mother and Nina."

"Thoughts and prayers," I say with a smile, then, "Hey, are we still on for Sunday?"

He nods miserably, as if he's agreeing to his execution. "I don't know what good will come of it, but yes. I'd appreciate your read on the situation. Thanks for connecting me to the woman who makes the tea."

He trusts me, and again, I feel a stab of unworthiness. I'm the asshole here. I've tried not to like him—to see him as a person unworthy of friendship and courtesy—but I'm not capable of doing that anymore.

Dale started my awakening by offering me that watch, but Lainey has continued it. Because she's shown me how different it feels to form a genuine connection with someone—to let them see glimpses of the ugliness inside of you without flinching away.

I don't blame Anthony for wanting something real for himself. And, more alarmingly, I want it for him. I definitely don't want him to be stuck marrying Nina.

Anthony swears to himself, then looks at me. It hits me that while he's normally clean-shaven, he has a heavy five-o'clock shadow. He's falling apart at the seams—driven to the point of breaking by a man who left his life almost a quarter of a century ago, a woman who doesn't love him, and a mother whose love is suffocating.

It's strange to think of the impact people can have on us even after they're gone—the crater they leave behind to be filled by other things. It's even stranger to think of creating such a crater.

I think about Dale often. I think about his busboy hats and broad white mustache, and the way he used to swear under his breath whenever anyone broke a traffic law but never swore otherwise. I think about the way he held out that box to me, his eyes full of warmth and pride—of belief in me, the stranger who was trying to pull one over.

I wonder if I caused him lasting harm, which leads me to wonder about the other people whose lives I've touched. Have I taught them to distrust? To hate? Do they know Ryan and I were the ones who stole from them?

Anthony shakes his head, then says, "I haven't asked you a single thing about yourself. How's it going with Elaine?"

"You know what, man? It's actually going great."