1
The difference between getting caught and executing a perfect heist is planning.
Clementine closed her eyes and silently repeated her mantra. Lucien’s mantra, really. Her mentor’s quote usually calmed her revving pulse, and they’d reviewed every inch of this job backward and forward. There would be no fumbles. But her chest felt like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. She counted her inhales and exhales until her heart rate decelerated from Ferrari fast to Tonka Truck chug.
Ned Compton’s townhome was quiet. He’d left for his Italian villa, as expected. The neighbors were snoozing. Clementine had cut the alarm. No fuss, no muss.
Eyes wide. Stay focused. Get the job done.
She clicked on her headlamp and glided down the hall, took the stairs to the upper level, and slipped into Ned’s study quiet as a cloud. The Brendan Monroe painting above the wainscoting was striking, even in the dim light. It wasn’t the exquisite artwork she was after, though. She’d be stealing the 8.47 carat diamond ring behind it.
According to Lucien’s intel, Ned had purchased the extravagant piece of jewelry at auction—a Saudi princess’s engagement ring, likely for the Italian girlfriend he regularly cheated on, or one of his mistresses. Ned’s internet activity indicated he’d ordered a new safe. Something harder to crack for his precious purchase. It was due to arrive next week.
Clementine lifted the painting, relieved to find the old safe she’d been expecting. She propped it against the mahogany desk, her eyes skimming over a few framed photos: Ned fishing with a group of guys, Ned with his girlfriend (who had crappy taste in men), Ned at a country home, flanked by smiling people, probably family. Clementine’s heart rate switched tactics, dulling to a sluggish thud. The only photo in her apartment was of little Nisha, and she’d only met that girl once.
But Nisha and orphans like her were the reason Clementine was dressed in black, hair in a tight bun, black gloves secured, about to steal from Ned Compton.
Working faster, she removed her small backpack and pulled out her stethoscope. She’d always enjoyed this part of the job, the simple mechanics of machinery. Black and white. Right or wrong. Stethoscope placed over the lock, she listened for the faint click of the drive-cam notch sliding under the lever arm. She twisted the dial slowly and held her breath. There…just there. Two distinct clicks.
A snarly bark cut through her focus, and her eyes snapped to the office window. Lucien hadn’t mentioned a neighborhood dog, which meant she didn’t have her tranquilizer darts. But she did have liver treats. The noise had come from her exit route out back. Her only other option was the front door, a poor choice in this populated area, no matter the late hour. That pooch better be out for a quick pee.
Attention back on target, she noted the contact point she’d found and turned the dial 180 degrees to park it in place, then spun the dial methodically, straining to hear the telltale click of another wheel being picked up. Three wheels total. All she needed now were those three numbers.
She pulled out her pad and paper and resumed her position, listening, twisting: click…click. She graphed the found numbers.
Most kids learned basic math to answer textbook questions. Lucien’s homeschooling had held more of an edge. “If you get the x or y values wrong,” he’d say, “you’ll get the wrong numbers, you’ll work slower, and you could wind up in jail.”
She’d have taken jail back then over returning to foster hell.
Another snarl sounded. She worked faster.
She finished the graphs, recorded where the lines overlapped—23, 12, 66—and tried the three numbers. No luck. She reversed and reordered them. Nothing. One of the numbers had to be off, which meant she had to start over.
Twelve trials later, the clack and thunk of success vibrated behind the dial, and she swung the door open. The rush of adrenaline should have had her doing a silent fist-pump, but her senses felt dulled. Stacked papers filled half the safe, along with a small cream box that would house a ring—right there, for her taking. No different than the other paintings or jewels she’d lifted. Still, her determination wavered.
Ned was a creep who cheated on his girlfriend. Fencing the ring to ensure kids were fed and clothed trumped his superfluous “needs.” So why was a slick of guilt coating her stomach?
She flexed her fingers and gave her head a shake. She’d been off-balance all day. All year, really. Longer if she counted the Monet Disaster, but thinking about that was a fast track to blundering this whole gig.
The difference between getting caught and executing a perfect heist is planning.
She inhaled deeply and snatched the cream box, checking its contents before securing it in her bag. Safe closed and painting returned, she hurried down the stairs and hastened for the exit. The crisp air gave her a shot of energy as she tucked her gloves and headlamp into her bag. She snuck across the sleek patio, her back pressed against the wooden fence, then stepped into the alley. Where she was greeted by a low growl.
Clementine glanced over her shoulder, and yep, a large pit bull-type dog stood a block down, giving her the evil eye. She believed all animals were inherently good, and bad dogs were raised by bad people. She had no clue who’d raised this bruiser, but now didn’t seem the time to test her theory.
She slung her backpack forward, dug out a few treats, and tossed them as far as possible. The dog’s nose tipped up. He found the scent and went to investigate. The second he moved, she bolted. Gravel kicked up as she ran, the pavement jarring her shins with each punishing footfall. A bark echoed. She ran faster. Too fast to notice the littered fast-food bag until it was underfoot and sliding. Her ankle twisted. She went down, awkward and hard, slamming her hip on the pavement.
Fucking hell.
She tensed a beat, sure the pit bull would be standing over her, drooly fangs glinting under the streetlamps. But she was alone. With a twisted ankle, a sore hip, and a two-hundred grand diamond ring.
Clementine hobbled into her apartment building, dreaming of her cushy pillow and fluffy duvet. She’d left the ring at the drop-off location. Lucien didn’t have anything else lined up. Maybe she’d sleep for a week, rest up, tend to her ankle before he sprung another job on her. Avoid the world and pit bulls for a while.
“You need a hand to your apartment?”
Clementine froze. She didn’t know that voice or the purple hair that was as bright as the smile directed at her. “I’m good. Just a twisted ankle.”
“I twist my ankle all the time,” the woman said, oblivious to Clementine’s brush off. “The right one. How I have any ligaments left is beyond me. I have some frozen peas in my place, if you need. And Advil…but I should maybe introduce myself before I give you pills.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Jenny. New neighbor in 2B.”
Clementine gave Jenny’s hand a reluctant shake. “I’m Amy.”
An easy, forgettable alias.
Aside from occasional lunches and dinners with Lucien, Clementine kept to herself. Being on her own was safe. She was consistent. She didn’t even know a neighbor had moved out.
Jenny slung her arm around Clementine’s waist. “At least let me help you to your door. 2C, I assume?”
She nodded, preferring silence. Jenny, however, liked the sound of her own voice. In the span of nine steps, Clementine learned she’d just moved here from LA and was a vegan hairstylist who planned to open her own salon. “A few friends moved here last year,” she said. “They loved it so much, I decided what the hell. Life is short, right? Anyway, they’re stopping over for drinks tomorrow. You should come.”