Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

JAKE

It's Saturday afternoon.

I no longer have the replica Roark gave me, which probably cost thousands to make, but I did express order a shitty copy of the Heart of the Mountain off Etsy. It's displayed on the coffee table right now. It's…imperfect, but it would be worse to take the necklace without leaving any kind of replacement.

I glance again at the shitty copy and run a hand through my hair.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. It looks like it came out of a gumball machine in the 1980s. The "gem" might as well be a hunk of children's slime dried out in the sun.

The only thing I've got going for me now is that Anthony's mother is at least seventy, and her eyesight is probably not what it once was.

Things I do not have going for me?

Two people now know about the expensive replica: Chloe, the woman I brought back here two weeks ago, when I was drunk off my ass and too fucked up and sad to remember why I shouldn't do that. I was also too messed up to recall anything about her other than her name and general appearance.

I went to the bathroom and came out to find her staring down at the necklace, which I'd left out on my dresser, her finger tracing the gem. Maybe she recognized it from the documentary; maybe she didn't. Either way, I could tell she wanted to pocket it and run, so I told her I had to call it a night.

She left, and the only people I've spoken to since are Roark, my neighbors in this building, and Anthony Rosings Smith. I've been going out of my head, but at least I was being careful—doing what needed to be done to get Ryan out of this shit.

And then I went and invited Elaine inside…

She doesn't live in this building.

I went up and down the hall after she left, hitting up the apartments of all the people I haven't met, pretending I was selling Girl Scout cookies for my non-existent niece. Then I went downstairs and did it all again. I got enough cookie orders that if I stick around long enough I'll have to hit up eBay or some shit because apparently the Girl Scouts aren't up to their cookie mojo until spring.

Unless someone had Elaine and the cat hidden in a closet—and I doubt any closet would contain them—she doesn't fucking live here. She lied to me.

It's not often I get hoodwinked.

It's…alarming.

Why did she choose me as her target?

I'd like to think she wanted to ride my dick because it felt ridiculously good when she practiced—but she spilled a whole beer on herself and pretended to have her period, so I have to be realistic.

She didn't want me. She wanted what she thought I might have.

Which leaves me with the question of why she thought Jake Jeffries, therapist and renter of a mediocre apartment, had anything worth taking. I guess it's possible she has a regular routine with her cat. She could go from building to building, suckering lonely men into letting her inside so she can mow through their shit, the way she did mine, and steal anything worth keeping.

A more alarming possibility is that she's friendly with Chloe, who thought the necklace might be the real deal and sent in a pal to check it out.

But that still doesn't explain the cat.

If it was some sort of a con, it wasn't a very good one.

Except it worked , a voice in my head insists. She got you good, and you don't want to admit it.

I checked out Nextdoor—a website that's much more useful for thieves and con artists than people probably realize—and also Reddit and Craigslist, but no one was talking about a hot chick with a cat sidekick or two women pulling off cons together.

Of course, that doesn't mean no one else has been fleeced. A lot of men would rather die than admit they've been taken in by a woman. Or women, as the case may be.

This morning, I told myself it was time to stop looking for Elaine, especially since I don't know what I'd do if I found her. I can't turn her into the cops for stealing the necklace.

But it's really not good if it ends up in some pawn shop.

No doubt about it, Jake Jeffries is on life support, and I'm going to have to pull the plug soon if I don't want Jake Langston to catch his disease.

So I have to finish this, and finish it quickly.

I have to finish it tonight .

I've never pulled off a job so quickly—usually, there's a planning period after I scope out the territory. But at this point, Ryan's life isn't the only one hanging in the balance.

If the wrong people make the right connections…

I swear as I slump onto the couch, running my fingers up through my hair.

This job started out bad, poisoned, because of the way I'd been made to do it, and now it feels wrong all the way through.

I'd step away if I could.

But…

My burner starts vibrating on the table next to the shitty necklace, and I know it's Roark.

I answer, and he doesn't bother with a greeting. He just says, "I'm getting tired of waiting for you, Jake. Your brother's getting tired of waiting for you. I think I'll let him play eenie, meenie, miny, mo to decide which hand I'll take. Seems only fair, don't you think?"

"Very menacing," I say with a sigh. "I know. I'm going to the house tonight. This'll be over soon."

It'll be over tonight.

But he knows I'm usually more cautious. If he finds out I'm planning to throw caution to the wind, he'll ask why. No way am I going to tell him about Elaine.

I may resent the woman, and she definitely screwed me over, but I won't shove her into the sights of a potentially dangerous man. The thought makes me bristle inside.

"See that it is," he says, with the sigh of a man who's been deeply disappointed by me more than once. "I'm giving you two more weeks. Any longer than that, and I'll know you've lost your ability."

"Can I talk to Ryan?" I put in quickly.

There's a very good chance shit's going to go FUBAR tonight, and I figure I'd better warn him that he might need to fumble his own way out of this one.

"Does this look like a Club Med?" he asks, sounding pissed, and the line goes dead.

So he's really angry with Ryan, as if I didn't already know.

I get dressed in my black tie optional suit, then pick up a couple of bouquets for the bride-to-be and Mrs. Rosings. Jake Jeffries, therapist, is the kind of man who buys women flowers they probably don't want or have nowhere to put.

Anthony told me he put me on the "list," and I should meet him and his fiancée at Smith House, so I head over there next. A guard at the gate instructs me to park outside and then allows me entry on foot.

One guard. He's fifty or maybe sixty, unarmed, and about as threatening as a warm glass of milk someone's mother made them. He pats down my pocket, takes a look at my wallet and Jake Jeffries's ID, and sends me in on my merry way.

The house is old, ugly, and stinks of money. It looks like a gingerbread house left too long in the oven, or a comparatively small, less impressive copy of the Biltmore—kind of like the necklace in my shoe looks like the Heart of the Mountain. I've seen the house before, of course. I've studied the blueprints and done drive-bys. I've watched the full, dry-as-dust documentary about the treasures of the Eastern shore, which discusses the Heart of the Mountain from minutes 45 to 50. I've studied Anthony's family history and possibly know more about it than he does. I could write a five paragraph essay about the Smith family, but I don't need to do that. All I need to do is steal that necklace and get the fuck out. Easy.

But I'm not as good without Ryan, and I know it.

I've lost my edge, and I know that too.

I need for those things not to matter.

An animal brays so loudly it makes me flinch, followed by a woman swearing. Is that from…the yard?

I glance around the side of the building, but whatever's back there is hidden by shrubberies so thick a man could hide inside of them. Duly noted.

When I get to the door, I have to smile. A large photo of Anthony and Nina is arranged beside it, displayed on an intricate gold stand.

Damn, Anthony's mother is savage. It's a fine enough photo…other than the fact that one of Nina's eyes is half closed.

I knock, and the door is opened by a woman wearing what looks like a Red Lobster uniform—black pants, black shirt, red tie. "Welcome to Anthony and Nina's happily ever after," she says with a fixed smile that reminds me of a painted doll.

Yikes.

I plaster on a fixed smile of my own. "Thanks."

Her eyes widen when she notices the flowers in my hand.

"I'll take those for you, sir."

"They're gifts for Nina and Mrs. Rosings," I say.

"And I'm sure they'll be cherished ," she responds. I don't need to be good at reading people to know they'll be in the trash within the next five minutes. Wasteful as hell, but fine by me. It would just mean the gesture is being accepted in the spirit in which it was made.

I hand them over, and she directs me to the "drawing room" for cocktails and "light" conversation.

The contrarian in me wants to ask if I'll be thrown out if I tell everyone I'm suffering from an existential dilemma, but I'm here to do a job, and so is she. I shut the fuck up.

So I enter that room, wearing Jake Jeffries as much as the suit. The first person I see is Anthony, who's probably only been in his childhood home for a matter of minutes and is already rocking a flop sweat in his grey suit. His choice of clothing is a micro-rebellion, probably, against black tie optional. He lights up the instant he spots me, which would make me feel guiltier if I hadn't already drawn devil horns on him in my head. He leans in toward the pretty, dark-haired woman standing next to him and says something. When they step forward together, Anthony's hand pressed to her lower back, revealed by a dip in her silver sequined dress, I see it. Behind her is a four-foot-high clear display case—and nestled inside is the very fucking necklace I came here to steal—the Heart of the Mountain, out and proud.

Well, goddamn , I think as a genuine smile stretches across my face.

This is the first piece of luck I've had in weeks.