Chapter 13

Even from a distance, I could make out the familiar white Mercedes as plain as day. It was parked in the turnaround with the doors shut, but the trunk wide open.

Looking at it, I wanted to scream. Instead, I leaned back in my seat and groaned, "Cripes, not again."

"What?" the painter asked.

I gave him a nervous glance. "I've got company."

He stopped the car and turned to study my face. At something in my expression, he cut the engine, along with the headlights. His gaze shifted forward to the Mercedes, and his eyebrows furrowed. "And that's a problem?"

I looked toward the house. Through the eyes of a stranger, there was nothing to be alarmed about. In front of me, there it was, a perfectly pretty scene – a pricey estate with a pricey car parked out front.

Sure, the car's trunk was open, but that wasn't terribly unusual. I'd parked in that same spot countless times, unloading whatever from my own trunk.

But studying that oh-so-pretty picture, I knew something that a stranger wouldn't. If past history was any indicator, the trunk wasn't being emptied. It was being filled.

I just knew it.

I looked to the painter. "It's my aunt and uncle."

He gave me a perplexed look. "And?"

I winced. "And I think they're robbing me."

His gaze shot back to the Mercedes. "You think? Or you know?"

Right on cue, my front door flew open, and a portly middle-aged man with a shock of red hair staggered out through the open doorway. In his arms was a bronze sculpture of a charging war horse.

The man was my uncle. The horse was my dad's – or at least, it had been, back when he'd been alive.

I looked to the painter. "Well, I guess that answers that question."

But the painter wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Uncle Ernie, who was stumbling his way down the front steps, heading toward the trunk of his car.

Before I could even consider what to do, the painter hit the headlights. Under the sudden glare, my uncle froze in mid-stagger, like a farmer caught screwing a chicken.

Next to me, the painter fired up the Camaro and hit the gas. We roared forward and skidded into the turnaround, only to stop on a dime just inches from the back of the Mercedes.

Uncle Ernie staggered sideways. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he yelled, apparently more in surprise than in anger.

I had to give him credit for one thing though. He hadn't dropped the horse. Then again, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo.

I shoved open my car door and jumped out to demand, "What are you doing?"

He glanced around. "Huh?"

Through gritted teeth, I said it again, more slowly this time. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

He gave me a shaky smile. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be at T.J.'s?"

I eyed the horse. "Aren't you supposed to be not robbing my house?"

At this, he had the nerve to look insulted. His gaze shifted to the bronze statue, still clutched in his beefy arms. "You talking about this?"

Yes. I was. And whatever else he was taking. I turned toward the trunk of his car. Inside, I saw an ancient broadsword and a lace tablecloth.

I felt my jaw clench. The sword was a collector's item, worth more than I cared to consider. But it was the tablecloth that really ticked me off. It wasn't a pricey artifact, but it had belonged to my grandmother on my mom's side.

She'd died years before I was born. She hadn't been a wealthy woman. Far from it. Other than a few old photos, the tablecloth was all I had to remember her by. And I actually used the tablecloth, too. I saved it for special occasions, like Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Thanksgiving.

And here, Uncle Ernie was trying to steal it, just like he'd stolen the good china and half of the wine glasses.

Screw that.

I looked back to my uncle and felt my gaze narrow. "How could you?"

He was still looking insulted. "I don't know what you think here, but you've got it all wrong."

Sure I did.

A new voice, the painter's voice, cut across the short distance. "Yeah? Then put it back."

I turned toward the sound and was surprised to see him standing just to my right, giving my uncle the look of death.

My uncle gave a nervous chuckle. "Put what back?"

I made a sound of annoyance. "Oh for God's sake. He means the horse, obviously." I pointed. "The thing you're holding."

My uncle looked to the statue. "This?"

I rolled my eyes. "No. The horse you rode in on."

After a long, awkward moment, my uncle's eyes widened to epic proportions. "What? You think I'm stealing this?"

I stared in stunned silence. At that moment, I could practically see him wearing a straw hat and denim overalls, pooled around his ankles. What chicken? This chicken?

I threw up my hands. "Of course I think you're stealing it. What else would I think?"

My uncle's gaze shifted to the painter. "So, uh, who's that?"

It was the painter who answered. "It's the guy who's gonna kick your fat ass if you don't turn around and put that back where you found it."