Chapter 12 #3
She hummed. “Yale would be lucky to have you.”
We finished up the sandwich after that, making small talk that always seemed to result in Juliette laughing, and Christ, the sound did something to me. It was such a soft, light sound. All airy and warm. I had never heard anything so beautiful.
When we were done eating, I walked Juliette back to school with five minutes to go until the bell would ring again.
She’d have time to sneak back in and hopefully not get caught.
But she looked a hell of a lot better as she stood in front of me, tiny smile on her face.
Those tears in her eyes were gone, and I liked that sight so much better.
“I gotta go back in now,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Thanks for sharing your lunch with me. That was really nice of you.”
“No problem. Hopefully you liked it.”
“I did. And you were right. Stolen stuff does taste better.”
Chuckling, I stuffed my hands into my pockets, rocking on my heels a little as nerves suddenly hit me. I didn’t know how to talk to girls most of the time, and I sure as hell didn’t have a lot of experience talking to rich ones.
“Maybe…” I said. “Maybe I could steal you some lunch again sometime? Like, another day? On Friday or something? After school? I don’t want you to skip again.”
And her cheeks went red again, the color all perfect and pretty, her eyes big as she stared up at me. “Friday sounds perfect.”
“Great.” I smiled at her. “Um, I’ll see you then. But just… promise me something?”
Head tilted, she blinked at me. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t give up on your art. Transfer back to your class. Sounds like you love it a lot,” I said. “Don’t give up on it. Do it for me. Your best friend in the whole world… Kylie.”
A giggle left her lips, all sweet and gentle, before it slowly faded and something serious looked back at me. “Why do you care if I do it or not?”
I shrugged. “Just… I don’t know, I don’t like the idea of you giving up on something that means a lot to you. Seems unfair, you know?”
Her fingers fidgeted together, our eyes locked for a long moment before her lips parted. “Only if you promise to keep stealing me lunch.”
A grin spread across my face. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll get you two sandwiches next time.”
She chewed into her bottom lip before giving me a little nod. “Deal. See ya, Kylie.”
Looking over her shoulder, she shot me a smile and a little wave of her fingers, and I felt my heart do something it had never done before. I was pretty sure it skipped a beat or two as I took in that bright smile, watching her as she disappeared into that big old building.
There was something real special about that girl.
Fuck my stupid fucking brain for making me think of that.
Fuck it. Fuck my brain, fuck my memory, fuck my heart for still clinging onto that moment.
God, it was like I could still feel it. The smell of grass, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the sound of Juliette’s laugh.
That day was burned inside of my skull. Not just because of who it was, not just because it was Juliette and it felt impossible to forget her, but because she had followed through on what she said.
She had dropped that stupid ass politics class and transferred back to art, and I could remember it vividly, the day she told me, her eyes all bright and her laughter giddy.
They don’t know, she had said. They don’t even know I’m doing it.
That I went back. I hope they don’t find out.
I don’t even care if they do. Guess what I painted today in class?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I hadn’t seen Juliette in a week and I was pissed at her for making me miss her at all.
I hadn’t been lying when I said I had heard the slightest bit of relief in her voice when she talked about me nearly killing her husband.
There had been something behind her eyes she didn’t want me to see.
Curiosity, maybe even some amusement, but she didn’t let it linger enough for me to analyze it more.
Either way, I was more than happy to do it all over again.
Life had been getting in the way lately.
Bennett had found us a couple jobs all the way on the other side of the state.
Some place called Fairbridge that was all scenic rivers and country clubs and designer stores.
Mansions too, of course, and me and the guys had been on a bit of a spree as we stole from the wealthy around Illinois.
Foot tapping against the floor of the parlor’s break room, I thought back to the morning, to Bennett telling me about some other homes he thought would be good opportunities for us.
He was thinking of traveling for a week or two.
Me and the guys liked to break away from routine.
Sometimes we’d hit a heap of houses all in one week.
Then the next week, we’d only slip into one and put a pause on jobs for a while.
A month. Two months sometimes. It changed.
The point was to not create a pattern, but to create havoc.
Confused cops were what we wanted, and that was what we got.
Bennett had given me a pretty thorough list of the towns he thought were good targets, and I was just about to do a quick search of them on my phone when the TV caught my attention.
Sharp, dramatic music hit my ears, watching as the Channel 12 news anchorwoman stared into the camera with big, concerned eyes.
I leaned back in my chair, brows raised as I waited for the woman’s voice to fill the room.
“Chicago police are intensifying their search for three individuals who have been linked to a series of high-profile home invasions,” she said.
“These crimes have been plaguing the city for years, and have now spread to Fairbridge. On Friday night, a Fairbridge couple were targeted in their home and were held at gunpoint as the trio stole various goods. Some of the items reported as stolen include limited edition watches and handbags. Authorities continue to urge anyone with information to come forward.”
I shut the noise out. There had been a lot of opportunities for Juliette to rat. If she was smart, she would have done it the first night, but after waltzing in and out of that fancy mansion more than once, all I had heard from her were empty threats.
I shook my head and tried to focus again.
My break would be over in a minute. It was one of those days when only me, Bennett, and Chase were in at the parlor.
Chase was the only artist working today, so he had been busy with clients the last few hours while Bennett had been working on stuff for the website.
It was early afternoon and I was almost done with all the stupid behind the scenes duties, but as I looked up, I saw Bennett staring at me from the doorway with a little frown on his face.
“Do you want an update on your girl?” he asked, a folder in his hand.
“What girl?” I mumbled, but we both knew who he was talking about.
He shut the door behind him. “I thought it was really strange how there was nothing about her online. Don’t you think it’s weird how she has next to no social media? No profiles or accounts. No website to promote her art. She’s rich, right? She could easily pay someone to make her a nice website.”
I shrugged lazily, eyes on the TV. “So?”
Sitting down across from me at the break room table, Bennett opened up the folder, taking out a bunch of papers and spinning them around so they were facing me. “You said she wanted to go to Harvard, right? To study art?” he said.
“Yeah…” I said slowly. “That whole painting thing fucked everything up, though. I told you that.”
“But it’s still so strange, right? How she has zero presence online? And after doing some digging, she doesn’t have much presence in real life as well.”
I raised an eyebrow up at him. “What does that mean?”
“Do you know how much spare time rich people have?” He tapped his finger against sheet after sheet. “Look at all the art events that happen in Montclair. Classes, gallery showings, workshops, panel nights, contests. Look at all the names of the people who signed up.”
Brows furrowing together, I picked up one of the sheets of paper. “How do you always manage to find all this shit?”
“I’m good with computers. Look. Art markets, stalls, fairs, conventions, showings. I was able to track a good chunk of art events that took place in Montclair over the last few years. I looked at all the photos of the events online. Your girl? Nowhere to be seen.”
I snatched at more papers, but I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for as I scanned the long list of names. Hers didn’t show up even once. “So? I don’t know. Maybe she just paints at home. It’s not like she needs to make money. Maybe she does it as a hobby.”
“Don’t you think she’d have some kind of online portfolio for that? At least one site to display her art? Most artists have a handful, and she doesn’t have a single one. Did she stop painting?”
Confusion swept over me as I gave my head a shake. “Juliette wouldn’t give up on her art. She loved it. She did it every day.”
“You sure?” he asked, holding up another piece of paper. “Usually when you do something like that every day you need to buy the supplies for it.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Look.” He gave the paper a shake. “Gordon Cavendish’s credit card transaction history.”
Frowning, I turned away from him. “I don’t wanna see that shit.”
“There’s not a single art purchase within the last five years. Not one.”
I shrugged. “It’s probably on Juliette’s card.”
Bennett blew out a quick breath. “Yeah, that’s the thing. She doesn’t have one.”
Brows slowly pulling together, I took the sheet from his hands, giving it a quick scan. “What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t have a card in her name.”
“Maybe you missed it.”
“That’s offensive.”
I looked through the other sheets. Gordon obviously had little self control when it came to spending.
Patek Philippe store. Expensive wine. A shit ton at the pharmacy every month—probably for medication that wouldn’t fix the real problem.
But nothing about buying any art supplies. Not even a fucking paint brush.
“She has no social media accounts whatsoever,” Bennett said, “and it takes me five minutes flat to find ones that people think are hidden. She doesn’t even have those. No burner accounts, no anonymous profiles, no secret pages. No credit card either. Nothing. Your girl’s good at hiding.”
There he went again, calling her my girl. It made me straighten up in my seat. “Okay, so?” I asked. “So what?”
“It’s kinda strange how she doesn’t seem to have a life. It’s like she sits at home all day. I watched that house for weeks straight. She barely left. She would have more than enough time to paint.”
“Maybe she’s a fucking trophy wife who sits on her ass all day,” I muttered, but even as I said the words, I knew that wasn’t Juliette.
Juliette had always been determined to make it in the world.
She was smart and knew what she wanted. Harvard, art career, success; that should have been hers.
Not being some boring, cliché Stepford wife.
“You believe that?” Bennett huffed.
“I don’t know,” I finally said, my voice low. For a moment I wondered if it was because of him. Her husband. If he was some controlling asshole who didn’t want her to have what she always wanted.
“All signs point to her being stuck in that mansion all day doing nothing,” said Bennett. “I suppose there are worse places to be stuck, though.”
I had always wondered what had happened to Juliette during all our years apart.
I had never looked her up during that time.
Not even once. It always sounded too painful, like it’d rip open wounds that would bleed out hard and fast if I ever let her get near them.
She had hurt me in the worst way she could, but that was never supposed to stop her.
The spoiled little rich girl was supposed to go on to accomplish everything she had ever dreamed of.
So why the hell hadn’t she?