“Jules.” Max smiled, looking freakishly normal in a white cotton T-shirt and jeans. “I thought that was you.” He rapped his knuckles against the wall. “Thin walls. I heard your footsteps from a mile away.”
“Congratulations.” I shoved the portfolio bag at him. I’d stored the rest of Josh’s items in a separate purse, which I kept tucked inside my jacket. “Here’s your stupid painting.”
“Right here in the hall?” He clucked his tongue. “No manners. What if someone sees us?”
“I’m pretty sure we could do a drug deal in the lobby and no one would blink an eye.”
“There are benefits to staying in a hotel such as this one.” Nevertheless, Max stepped back into his room, out of the line of sight of anyone walking down the hall, before he pulled out the painting. He examined it with a small grimace. “This is truly hideous.”
“Then give it back.” It was worth a try.
Max chuckled. “Glad to see you’ve kept your sense of humor. No.” He tucked the art back into the bag. “This baby is worth a lot of money.”
“Fine. Now you have it,” I said curtly. “I assume you’ll be leaving soon.”
I held my breath while he stared at me, hoping he’d take the bait and tell me when he planned to leave. I needed to know how much time I had to implement the second part of my plan.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair by this weekend,” he drawled. “Which isn’t to say I won’t contact you again in the future if I miss you. We had such fun times together.”
I bit back a scathing retort. The longer I stayed, the more likely I’d slip up. Besides, I didn’t want to give Max the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
I turned on my heel and stalked to the elevator without replying. I made it back to the metro without incident, and relief cooled my veins as the train whooshed through the tunnel toward Logan Circle.
Phase one, complete.
It was too late to initiate phase two, so I went straight to my room when I returned home. Thankfully, Stella was already asleep, so I didn’t have to answer any questions about where I’d been.
I stripped off my clothes and jumped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the sticky film of guilt on my skin.
It was past midnight. Max had the painting, and Josh would be home in less than seven hours.
There was no going back.
Thick, steamy air clogged my nostrils with each shallow breath when I pictured Josh’s reaction to the “break-in.”
No. It’s fine. I’m going to return the items, including the painting.
Maybe. Hopefully.
My mind raced as I ran through my scripts tomorrow, both for Josh when he inevitably tells me about the burglary and for the person whose help I needed.
My plan was simple, but it hinged half on reality and half on hope.
It would work, though. It had to work.
There was no other option.
43
JOSH
Something was wrong.
My house looked the same as it had when I left last night—curtains drawn, the row of plants on the porch lined up neatly against the wall—but the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up nonetheless.
I scanned the surrounding area, my senses on high alert. I didn’t spy anyone lurking in the bushes or pointing a sniper rifle at me through a neighbor’s window, so I inched toward the porch with caution.
Instead of using my key, I twisted the doorknob and was only half surprised when it opened without resistance.
It confirmed what my gut already knew: someone broke into my fucking house.
I pushed the door open all the way. My heart banged against my chest, more out of anger than alarm. I doubted the burglar was still here. Most thieves broke in during the day when people were at work. If they came at night, they must’ve been watching me. They knew I worked the night shift sometimes.
My skin crawled at the violation. The idea that someone had been watching me and planning for the right moment to break into my house made me sick, but this wasn’t the time to dwell on that.
First, I needed to figure out what the hell they stole.
Logic took over, and I called 911 before I did a quick search for missing high-value items. My TV was still there, as were my PlayStation and the signed Michael Jordan basketball Ava gifted me for my twenty-third birthday. The house appeared untouched.
I’d almost convinced myself I was being paranoid and merely forgot to lock the front door...until I entered my room.
“Motherfucker.”
Clothes spilled out of my ransacked drawers, bottles scattered half-cracked on the dresser, and there was a glaringly empty spot on the wall where my painting once hung. The burglar had destroyed my room.
Hazelburg was one of the safest towns in the country, which was why I hadn’t bothered to install a security system. Which cosmic force did I piss off for this shit to happen?
Anger rushed back in a blinding wave as I took another inventory of my belongings. Surprisingly, my laptop was still there, but my painting, emergency cash, iPad, and watch were gone. Nothing too valuable, but still.
The fact that someone had come into my room and rifled through my belongings without my consent made my pulse spike.
I needed a strong drink and a nice, long session with a punching bag to alleviate my fury, but I had to wait for the police to arrive first.
When they did, one of them swept the room for evidence while another took my statement. A frown creased his face after I listed the missing items.
“So the burglar stole four items worth a couple hundred dollars combined and left your laptop?” His words weighed heavy with skepticism.
I didn’t blame him. I didn’t fucking understand it either.
“Maybe something spooked them and they left before they could grab it.” It was the only explanation I could think of.
“Hmmm.” The officer’s frown deepened. “Okay. We’ll do our best to find the perpetrator and recover your items, but I want to set the right expectations. Only thirteen percent of burglary cases are ever solved.”
That was what I figured, but it sounded like he’d given up on the case before he started.
“I understand.” I forced a tight smile. “I appreciate any help you can give, Officer.”
The police left soon after with no leads, taking my hopes of recovering the items with them. In a week, my case would be sitting at the bottom of their to-do list, collecting dust.
Somehow, the day got shittier and shittier.
I walked into the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of vodka while I dialed Jules. There was nothing she could do, but I needed someone to talk to, and she was the first person that popped into my mind.
“Hey, what’s up?”
My muscles loosened a smidge at the sound of her voice.
“Someone broke into my fucking house.” I poured the vodka into a glass and tossed the drink back. Its cold burn doused some of the flames of my anger. “Stole a bunch of shit. The police just left and said they’ll look into it, but the fucker who did this is probably in another state by now.”
Jules’s audible inhale cut across the line. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” I placed the empty glass in the sink and put her on speaker while I returned to my room. Now that the police had cleared the scene, I needed to clean up the mess the burglar left. “Lucky you, they took the painting you hated so much.” I tried to lighten the mood. “You hire someone to break into my place, Red? Because if you really wanted to get rid of the art, you could’ve just asked. I would’ve thrown it away for you.”