He pictured her as a kid, walking in on her father dead in his car, being torn from her mother, tossed into the foster system. Clementine was a strong woman. She had overcome, but at what cost? She hadn’t become a burglar on her own. Someone would have schooled her. “You said we.”
“What?”
“Before, when explaining, you said we, then you switched to I. Who do you work with?”
Her fidgeting ceased. “No one. I work alone.”
The hard lines of her face said otherwise. “If you want me to believe you, you need to stop lying.”
She flinched like she’d been slapped and mouthed fuck. He waited. If she shut down and didn’t give him the full story, he was done. He wasn’t sure he’d rat her out, but he’d make sure she left Whichway and never came back. The thought alone did painful things to his insides. He’d fallen for her, harder than he’d realized, but could he forgive her? Animal or human, Jack believed in change. Rehabilitation. Easier said than done when the betrayal was personal.
“My handler,” Clementine finally said. “I work with a handler. He took me in when I was fourteen, cared for me when my choices were living on the streets or foster hell. He researches and chooses the jobs and does the business end of things. I do the heists.”
Heists. He’d only ever heard that word in movies. Ocean’s Eleven. The Sting. He couldn’t wrap his brain around it all. “Is he in town?”
She shook her head. “But don’t ask for his name. I love him like a father and won’t implicate him.”
Jack dragged his hand through his hair, tried to untangle his thoughts. It all coiled tighter. Clementine hiked a large tube over her shoulder. He’d only just noticed it.
“Are you calling the cops?” she asked tentatively.
“Not yet.”
She stepped closer and dropped her voice. “Why not?”
There was no answering that question tonight, not while his mind was more reactive than his middle school volcano project, but he believed she hadn’t known him when they’d first met on the road. She had been looking for Maxwell, not Jack. She had seemed cornered in the Whatnot Diner the next morning, when her cover and fake name had been blown. “Do you really want to change?”
She dropped the tube and lowered to her knees. A position of supplication? “So much. It’s gone on too long. And I didn’t dare hope you’d forgive me, but if you would. God, Jack—if you would? I want that more than anything. I want you.”
Another twisting in his chest, stronger this time. He didn’t like seeing her like this, beaten and pleading. He liked her sure and sassy, hands dirty from a broken-down car. He liked her on his body, laughing and kissing him. “I won’t call the cops,” he said, “but I need time. I’m not sure how I feel or what I want. Even without this, there’s a lot on my plate right now.”
“I can give you time.” Her words rushed out. “Whatever you need.”
He needed a cure for cancer, a magic wand to fix his company, and forty-eight hours of sleep. For now, he’d make do with space. “Will you stay in Whichway?”
She seemed to hold her breath. “Do you want me to?”
The hard thump of his heart answered before he did. “Don’t leave. Let me process this. But you need to walk away from judging the Elvis festival. Tell them we’ve become close friends and you wouldn’t be impartial. A replacement won’t be hard to find. And I’m not promising anything.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll speak with Jasmine first thing tomorrow.” She looked at the tube by her knees and pushed it toward him. “I won’t be needing this.”
She hurried from his room and didn’t glance back. Worried he’d change his mind? He might, if she stayed. His anger had returned, burning a line up his throat. He wasn’t sure how she planned to leave, through a window or the front door. Clementine the cat burglar. A woman who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. As a kid, he’d cheered for Robin Hood in movies. He’d imagined himself a bow slinger with a gift for thievery and an eye for archery. Marco’s love of the sport had led to many weekends shooting targets and playing make-believe.
Now here he was, ensnared by that reality.
Existing in a daze, he opened the tube Clementine had brought and pulled out a rolled canvas. It was a duplicate of the painting in the sound room, the one his granddad had said provided a sense of calm. Jack stared at it for a long while. He was still anything but calm.
19
Three days. Clementine hadn’t heard from Jack in three excruciating days. She’d remained in Whichway as he’d asked. She’d avoided his regular haunts. She was giving him the space he’d requested, while simultaneously developing an ulcer and gnawing her fingernails to shit. She kept expecting a brush-off text from him, or ringing sirens coming for her. The fact that she’d avoided talking with Lucien was partly to blame.
Ulcer city.
She’d emailed her father every night, lamenting her fears of starting over. She never mentioned Lucien specifically, or her illegal work. Just vague worries and stress. The idea of him knowing how far outside the law she lived soured her stomach. She wasn’t sure why, considering he couldn’t get mad or reprimand her, but her shame reinforced her decision to quit burgling.
All that remained was telling Lucien.
She sat in her motel room, legs crossed on her bed. It was mid-afternoon, the sun shining, but she was indoors. Her phone was clutched in a death grip. She’d dialed Lucien’s number ten minutes ago, intent on making her decision final. She hadn’t had the guts to send the call.
Grow a backbone, girlie. Slightly nauseated, she pressed Send.
Lucien answered swiftly. “Thought you’d gone underground on me.”
“You always tell me to be slow and thorough.”
“And you always listen. Time is ticking. How are you making out?”
Screwed. Hanging by a thread. Missing a man who probably wanted nothing to do with her. “Oh, you know, living the life in Nowhere, USA.” If she made Whichway sound dull and simple, maybe she’d quit picturing herself living here.
“Told you driving out was a bad idea. Never good to know just how far you are from civilization.” Rustling crinkled through the line. It was early. Lucien was probably on his couch, feet propped on his ottoman as he skimmed the paper, reading glasses in place. “I’ve bought us an extra week. What’s your time frame looking like?”
“Funny you should ask.” The words she’d rehearsed during her sleepless night slipped from her mind. All brainwaves went blank. Fan-freaking-tastic. “There’s been a complication.”
She could practically hear his spine snap straight. “What kind of complication?”
A prince of a man who sang like Elvis and kissed like a seductive king. Jack was a huge complication, but it was more than that. “Remember during the Monet job, when I procrastinated and delayed and struggled with my role in our business?”
“Of course, Orangelo. I’ll never forget that job.” The gravity of his voice hung between them. It was how he’d sounded when he’d sat vigil by her bedside, fresh stiches healing her stab wound. Neither of them would ever forget that.