She really was one fumble from getting caught.
The notion should have had the ache in her ribs intensifying, but resignation turned her body leaden. She’d already made her decision, knew she couldn’t keep this up. If she left Jack and Whichway now, he’d be none the wiser. She could still break the news to Lucien and not have to watch Jack’s face harden as he realized what she was. She could start fresh in another small town. Maybe one that hosted a Dracula festival. She could get down with that.
As long as she didn’t wimp out like she had five years ago. She’d been close to walking away then. So close to shedding her skin. The Monet Job fallout and notion of losing Lucien had silenced those thoughts. The same could happen again. She was weak where Lucien was concerned, and he was good at talking her down. But if she marched upstairs now, told Jack who she was and why she was here, there would be no turning back. The wheels of fate would come for her.
She rolled out her neck and took one last look at the Van Gogh.
Time to let the chips fall where they may.
18
Jack settled back into bed. He stretched and yawned and focused on his breathing, slow inhales and exhales. His eyelids grew heavy, his mind fuzzy around the edges. Sleep, glorious sleep.
Thump, thump, thump.
What in the actual hell?
The pestering noise was muffled but rhythmic. Footsteps? His mother returning to her room? Or an intruder. He got up—again—snapped on his light and searched his room for a weapon, just in case. All he saw was a pink yo-yo and model airplanes. He didn’t even have a baseball bat. The models were pointy at least. He grabbed his B25J Mitchell Bomber and moved toward his open door. The footsteps grew louder. Chloe’s room was too far to reach quickly. If someone had entered through that window…
Fuck. His pulse rattled.
He walked into the hallway. A person approached, too tall for the nurse or his mother, too far away to see clearly. He raised the bomber.
Clementine stepped forward and yelped.
He startled and bit back a curse. “What are you doing here?” He winced at his volume, worried he’d wake Chloe.
Clementine clutched her chest, then glanced at his torso. “You’re not wearing a shirt.” Her gaze dipped lower, to his briefs. She released a needy sound.
“You didn’t answer me.” And why was she wearing tight black clothes and black gloves in his parents’ house at way-too-late a.m., staring at his goddamn briefs?
“Is that a weapon?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Disbelief edged his tone, until he realized she was talking about the plastic plane in his hand, not his crotch. Using the model as a bludgeoning tool made as much sense as Clementine standing in his hallway at this hour. “What are you doing here?” he asked again, more guardedly.
She didn’t reply.
He gripped her elbow, steered her into his room, and closed the door. Whatever had brought her here, he wasn’t about to wake Chloe while finding out. He stood back, still clutching the stupid plane. “So?”
Clementine worked her jaw. “I was here to steal from you, but I couldn’t do it.”
He dipped his head and squinted, sure he’d heard her wrong. “To steal from me?”
“The Van Gogh in the sound room.”
“We have a Van Gogh?”
She nodded, her jaw still bunching. She folded her arms, but her hands kept moving, her fingers fidgeting by her elbows. “I’m a burglar. It’s why I came to Whichway. To find you and case the estate and steal the painting, but then I met you and your reptile shelter, and your family isn’t what I thought. Chloe is amazing, and I didn’t know your dad was sick, not that it matters. I just can’t do this anymore. Not to you. Not to anyone. But really not to you and...” Longing and desperation twisted her features. “I’m so sorry, Jack. You can call the cops or whatever. I’m prepared to deal with the consequences.”
Clementine.
Burglar.
Van Gogh?
He stared at her, unblinking. He opened and closed his mouth, confusion growing as he tried to assemble this unfathomable puzzle. With her skittishness and all she’d been hiding, he’d known she’d had skeletons in her closet. Dark secrets. He’d never imagined they resembled this. “Do you have a weapon on you? A gun or anything?”
She recoiled. “No. God, no. I’ve taken a knife to jobs since”—she glanced at her abdomen—“the stabbing. But I’d never bring something dangerous into your home.”
His shoulders lowered. He believed her. He wasn’t sure why in the face of her confession, but if Clementine wanted to do him or his family harm, she wouldn’t be standing here, telling him to call the cops.
Clementine.
Burglar.
Van Gogh.
The stabbing she wouldn’t discuss earlier.
He kept blinking, puzzling. It didn’t help. He just felt…numb. He put his model back on its shelf, crossed his room, and sat on the edge of his bed. “Why?”
She chewed on her lip. “Why what?”
“Why do you do it?”
She tipped up her chin, a hint of pride in the move. “The money funds orphanages and schools. We—I can’t use most of the cash here. I keep it untraceable, spend it overseas and spread it around where it does the most good, with a focus on a couple of places. I try to make a difference for these kids.”
“By stealing?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t keep any of it?”
“Enough to live comfortably and work on my car. I don’t need much.”
He clenched and released his hands. “Why should I believe you?”
She huffed out a bitter laugh. “I guess you shouldn’t.”
“And all of this with me…” He motioned to the bed, aggressive now. Pissed off. “Was all of this a lie, too? Was everything with me a way to get into my parents’ home?”
Like Ava had used him for his connections. The shock was wearing off, anger replacing his numbness.
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Not the first time we met, when I helped with your car. I didn’t know who you were then. My attraction to you was as real as real gets. It’s why I gave you my actual name, something I never normally do. But at the diner the next day and meeting you on runs…that was on purpose, to get invited here. Then it got complicated.”
The heat felt freshly oppressive, the air in the room thick and stifling. She focused on her feet. He closed his eyes.
“I fell a little for you when you sang for me in your shelter,” she whispered, her pleading tone slipping over him, forcing his eyes open. “Then a little more each day after. Or maybe it was before that, the first day we met. I couldn’t explain it then and I can’t now. It was so unexpected. You were so unexpected. And I’ve never told anyone about my past. Those stories were true, all of them—about my parents. But I used you, so…” She blinked and a tear slipped out. She dashed it away, looking appalled. “It’s okay to call the cops. I’m ready. I just want it done.”
He didn’t move for his cell phone. She’d lied and used him, but those tears yanked at his chest. Her admission did the same and worse to his heart.