But it can’t be real, right?
Why would it just be hanging here on the wall without much more than a piece of glass protecting it from the outside world?
“Show me the safe,” I say, forcing myself away from the Monet.
24
Olive
When we get to the safe…
The safe is located in the closet of the bedroom. It’s hidden from view by a stack of old clothing and coats.
It would be hard to find if Nicholas’ contact hadn’t told him about its exact whereabouts.
I am slightly relieved by the fact that the safe looks older than I had expected.
I brought a few different tools because I wasn’t sure what kind of safe it was going to be and this one would require a drill.
I lay my running backpack on the floor and pull out the drill.
“You know what you’re doing, right?” Nicholas asks.
I narrow my eyes, clearly annoyed.
These kind of statements do little to instill confidence, and confidence is exactly what I’m lacking right about now.
I feel around the safe and knock to listen for changes in design.
The hollow parts sound different from the rest.
I reach for the door and tug it for a moment, hoping for the best. Sometimes when the owner forgets to lock the safe, simply turning it gets it open.
I wouldn’t want to be the kind of robber to pass up a simple opportunity like that.
Unfortunately, the safe is indeed locked.
I take a deep breath and press the drill bit to the metal door.
The method is simple enough but there are a number of risks to this approach.
Many modern high security safes use thick plates to prevent drilling. If you were to drill into one of these barrier materials the collision with the drill will destroy the bit.
I brought a number of additional drill bits of various hardness but I have no way of knowing the strength of the barrier plates until I actually start drilling.
Another thing to worry about is the glass re-locker.
Practically every safe worth its price now uses a glass sheet right below the spring loaded re-locking bars to automatically lock the safe in case of this exact situation.
In order to prevent the glass re-locker from activating, I have to drill slowly and carefully, listening for any irregularity in the wall.
The first drill bit breaks almost immediately.
The second snaps just as fast.
The third one quickly follows.
I’ve brought backups of each hardness but I keep going up in hardness hoping that the next one will do the job.
When the fifth one finally starts to drill, I let out a slight sigh of relief.
“What’s wrong?” Nicholas asks when I stop drilling for a moment.
“Shh.” I put the drill down for a second and press my index finger to my lips.
When our eyes meet, I see the perspiration on his forehead, but I don’t let his worries cloud my thinking.
I pick up the drill again and line up the bit with the hole.
Before I turn it on, I tap it a few times trying to figure out whether I’m in danger of hitting glass.
To tell the truth, I am uncertain.
The sound is loud and piercing but it doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily glass.
When I’m about to press to start the drill again, Nicholas’ voice startles me.
“Someone’s here,” he whispers, reading a text on his phone. “He thought she was just looking around the house but she’s probably going in.”
Shit, shit, shit, I whisper silently while Nicholas reverberates my thoughts out loud.
Without wasting a moment, I press the drill into the hole and start it up again and pray that I don’t hit glass. A moment later, I pull the door open and peer inside.
Nicholas pulls out a round tube, popping the top open.
He pulls out the rolled canvas to confirm that it is indeed the Dark Blue Mirror by Alexandra Blur that we are looking for.
With people’s footsteps above our heads we don’t have any time to debate whether this collection of blue brushstrokes is worth the price tag.
When Nicholas slides the painting back into its tube, I quickly pack my tools back into my backpack.
Hearing the creak in the door leading to the basement, I hold my breath.
Nicholas quickly shuts the door to the safe, buries it behind the clothes in the closet, and pushes us in the opposite corner.
If someone were to open the door, they’d have to be really looking for us to notice a thing.
We wait.
Footsteps come downstairs.
I hold my breath.
The pounding of my heart sounds like a war zone in my head. Nicholas grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly.
We wait.
We didn’t bring any weapons because we have no intention of making this violent.
Yet at the same time we did not really give much thought to what we would do in this situation.
If anyone were to see us, I always thought it would be on the outside.
A neighbor perhaps?
Or maybe a friend stopping by to check on the place?
I don’t know who this person is but her footsteps are light and meticulous.
She is looking for something. We hold our breaths. Silently, I pray that whatever she’s searching for, it will not be inside the closet where we both stand pressed against the wall.
She reaches for the closet door.
My heart jumps into my throat. Nicholas squeezes my hand even tighter and we continue to wait.
I still have no plan as to what to do if she were to find us. My only hope is that Nicholas does.
The handle of the door rotates and I wait for the inevitable.
Except that it doesn’t come.
I open my eyes and peer into the darkness.
I can’t see the handle but I hear it snap back into place.
One footstep follows another except that now they are getting further and further away.
I don’t let myself let out a sigh of relief until she gets all the way to the top of the landing and slams the basement door shut behind her.
“Who was that?” I whisper, my words barely audible.
“No idea,” Nicholas whispers back.
When he lets go of my hand, a wave of relief rushes over me.
But we’re not out of danger yet.
We’re still in a closet in a strange house.
Nicholas looks down at his phone. Owen’s text shines brightly in the dark.
When he clicks on it, we both read the words on the screen: she’s gone.
25
Nicholas
When we get out…
My heartbeat doesn’t stop pounding until we get out of the house, run through the ravine, and up the other side.
In fact, it doesn’t really return to its normal beat until Owen pulls out of the housing development and then onto the highway.
He drives at a regular suburban pace, careful not to draw attention to himself.
We are eager to celebrate but we don’t want to tempt our luck.
“How was that?” I ask.
I adjust my seat on the plastic crate underneath my butt but it doesn’t make it any softer.
“She almost walked into the closet,” Olive says, turning to face Owen. “I had no idea what we were going to do if she opened it.”