“How are things at work? Anything exciting happening lately?” I ask.

Two hours later, we’re full of Chinese takeout, snuggling on the couch, watching I Love Lucy reruns, and chatting about random things. It’s an odd ritual, having another adult around to just talk to about anything and everything.

Well, not everything.

We share funny stories about people we saw during the day, the show we’re watching, and Paige. Plus the occasional theory about why Gravy still hisses at me at every turn.

“Nothing worth mentioning. Everything seems to be back to normal. The most excitement I’ve had this week was catching the Newsomes making out in the parking lot at the general store.”

“You call that exciting?”

“Yeah, they must be off their game. They said they were,” he grimaces, “playing in the park but someone was watching them. Mrs. Newsome thinks they’re being trailed by a ninja.” He laughs and shakes his head. “What about you? Any interesting readings? Anything involving a man in black?”

I cough a little to disguise my shock. Not only did the Newsomes see me, they mentioned seeing me. Hopefully they’ll forget about it soon. “Not lately. Are you working tomorrow after golf with Uncle David?”

“Not until tomorrow night. After golf I’ll probably run home and nap since I’m on call until at least two in the morning.”

Good to know. I have plans the next night, and if Jared is on call, he won’t be able to hang out. But I will have to keep an extra eye out for cruisers when I rob the jeweler’s.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

I spend the day working, playing cards with Paige, helping customers, balancing Ruby’s accounts, and doing inventory.

For tonight, I won’t need much, a small bag for my lock-picking tools, a magnet for the alarm, a can of black spray paint, and a flashlight.

The spray paint is a slight problem. I don’t have any. If I purchase a can the same day of the robbery, it might lead back to me. So, I wait until Mr. Bingel and the boys have left for an errand to sneak into his garage and steal a can. Well, borrow. I plan on bringing it back tomorrow when I’m done with it.

I’m ready to go when I notice the shop phone has a message. The light is on. Weird, we don’t get many calls outside business hours.

“Hey, Charlotte, it’s Jackson Murphy.”

Ruby’s accountant.

“If you could call me back, I’d really appreciate it.” He rattles off the number I already have on his business card and hangs up.

What does he need? The last thing I need is someone who knows I’m not Ruby showing up in town. Hopefully, he’s just checking in.

I call him back, but it goes to voicemail. I leave a brief message, confirming I got his call and that I would be available for a couple hours.

Then I wait.

Waiting is the worst. I pace back and forth, dusting clean shelves and thinking too much. Gravy lies on the front counter, his crooked tail twitching back and forth while he watches me.

When it seems late enough that no one will be about—and too late to expect Jackson to call back—I grab my backpack full of tricks, lock the door behind me, and head out on foot.

Since I’m not tailing the parents again anytime soon, I brought Tabby her car back yesterday morning. Besides, it’s not really necessary for the job tonight. Main Street is close enough for me to walk, staying in the shadows wherever possible. I’m wearing the same dark clothes I wore to tail the parents.

It’s dark and quiet in Castle Cove at night. While everyone slumbers, I creep down to Main Street.

The back door to the jeweler’s is almost too easy to sneak up on undetected, down a back alley flanked by the building itself on one side and tall leafy trees on the other.

I use the negative end of the magnet to locate the sensor in the door, sliding it in the crack of the frame until I feel the telltale tug. Then I flip it over and slip it into the crack, covering the sensor. After a final glance around, I click on the small flashlight and hold it in between my teeth, aiming it at the doorknob.

It only takes minutes to pick the lock. As soon as the tumblers fall, I swing open the door, my body tense in the darkness, and wait to make sure I haven’t triggered the alarm.

After ten full seconds pass and everything remains silent, I slip inside.

The alarm isn’t even set. It’s not even a commercial model. It’s a home model, outdated, and glowing a happy, unarmed green.

I let out a sigh and shake my head. What is wrong with these people and their trusting natures?

No time to relax. I dart to the adjoining door leading out to the shop and pause. I have to stay out of sight of the camera, but that won’t be possible if I want to actually take anything of value.

Which means I need something to cover the lens.

This part might get tricky.

Keeping my back to the wall, I slide toward the camera, staying out of the range of the lens. When I’m directly underneath, I pull the spray can out of my bag and shake it, pushing the button once to test the nozzle.

Nothing happens.

I shake it and try again.

It’s jammed.

Why didn’t I check it before I left? That’s like Robbery 101. I can hear Dad’s uncompromising bellow in my head: Check. Your. Damn. Gear.

I need something else to cover the camera. I glance through the items in my bag. Nothing helpful there. Unless . . .

Slipping my black shirt over my head, I shake it out and then toss it underhand up and over the camera. It flutters against the lens and then slips to the floor.

Crap.

I reach out and snag my shirt, and then I try again.

And again.

And again.

I’m panting and sweating by the time the shirt hooks the top of the camera and covers the lens entirely.

I do a quiet victory dance in my bra before stalking over to the display case to get the goods.

Once again, I have to pick a lock. This one is smaller than the one on the door but less sophisticated. After a minute, it gives and I grab a dozen different items—tennis bracelets, rings, necklaces, and a few large diamond earrings—and shove them into my little black bag. For the coup de grâce, I pull out the mint toothpick from the parents’ house and leave it on the ground next to the display case.

Then comes the hardest part. I have to get my shirt back down without getting in sight of the camera.

Using items at hand, I start throwing. A stapler swishes through the hanging fabric of my shirt and clatters to the ground. Then a small notebook.

I’m getting ready to throw my shoe when a light shines directly in the window, right at me.