Forty-Five
IREALLY SHOULDN’T HAVE WORN HEELS TO MY VERY FIRST HEIST.
They cost me only seconds on the stairs, possibly less. Seconds might be critical, though, in moments like this one. I reach the bottom steps, then the dark wood of the basement corridors, where I pause to pull off my pumps.
Ugh.More lost moments.
Until now, adrenaline has driven me, obliterating the pain in my insteps and narrowing my focus while guests gawked and security pursued me. If my heels are my unfortunate impediment, I have one very real advantage over the costumed guards chasing me. I know exactly where I’m going. I’ve literally played hide-and-seek within the walls of the corners I’m rounding right now.
Champagne runs down my shoulder in a garish parody of sweat. The strap of my dress got ripped somehow, I don’t know—maybe someone reached out for me on instinct when I fell, and fingers found fabric. The dress is ruined, which splashes a shot of remorse into the fear filling me.
I understood today would exact its costs, though. Every one of us did.
My frantic run, diamond necklace in hand, is the only way I might spare us costs none of us can pay. Might.
When I reach the room with the pool pump, I check in with the group chat, then hastily hunt for means of escape, using my phone’s flashlight to guide me. There—on the other end of the room, one small rectangular window. I search the shelves for something to climb onto. I no longer hear the hammering clamor of footsteps, which is good.
Or I assume it’s good, right until the door slams open. I whirl, the frantic floodlight of my phone illuminating the figure in the doorway—
It’s Jackson.
“What—?” I start to say. Relief and confusion and panic detonate in me in a combination I can’t handle. I’m cut off when Jackson shuts the door behind him, rushes forward, and places a firm hand over my mouth.
We’re pressed together in the dark storage room, our gazes locked. His heartbeat is racing with mine. Not like they’re competitors—as if they’re fleeing the same disaster hand in hand. We wait while footsteps pass us, then double back at the sound of voices from upstairs.
“I think they’re leaving,” I say, managing to keep my voice level. Not prepared for proximity with Jackson, I step away hastily. “What,” I demand of him, “are you doing here?”
I’m grimly glad when he looks frustrated with himself. It means I’m not the only one.
“I… don’t know,” he says.
No way. I’m not letting him off with easy vagueness. I shake my head. “When I first asked you if you would help me steal from my dad, you said no,” I press him. “Now you’re hiding from security with me. You don’t need to go down for something you weren’t even part of.”
“Well, maybe I should have been!” Jackson exclaims.
His admission startles me into silence. Not just what he’s said, either. It’s the way he’s said it, the fact that he’s said it. While Jackson is forthcoming with apologies—kind of absurdly chivalrous about them, in fact, loading his messages with contrite emojis whenever he ran fifteen minutes late picking me up—he isn’t often one for self-doubt, for uncertainty instead of confident charm. It’s surprising, watching him conflicted.
He paces the room, one hand wringing his hair, equal parts indignant and defensive. Readying himself for a fight where his only opponent is regret.
“Look, what you’re doing… isn’t what I would choose on my own, but part of loving someone is expanding your world to fit theirs,” he explains feverishly. “I should have when I had the chance.” His eyes find mine, imploring.
I swallow down the emotions rising in my throat. “No. I don’t need to drag you down with me,” I reply. “I’m probably going to get arrested by the end of the night.” Pushing him away is perverse enjoyment. I reach for it, clinging on to it. It’s all I have. If you can’t revel in victory, you can at least revel in defeat.
“You could never drag me down,” he says, his voice low.
He’s nearly invisible in the dark, the sharp lines of his face the only constellations in the starless night of the room’s shadows. Hating how futile the effort feels, I let my heart reach out. I want to believe him. Part of me even does. I do have good reasons for what I’m doing. My mom needs this money.
But… it’s not the whole truth. I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy what I’m doing, the dangerous rush of it. The high stakes. The vindication of vengeance no one thinks me capable of. I suppose I’m more like Tom, whose dark recklessness I recognize from my own reflection.
Jackson has no idea how far down I can drag him. If he imagines nobility is my only reason for being here, he’s wrong. Maybe I should work harder to show him, but I like the way he looks at me. Adoringly.
He smiles, worsening matters. His grin could light up entire rooms, even ones where we’re hiding in the dark from pursuers. It is infuriatingly endearing. “Also. Olivia. Come on,” he says, “I highly doubt you’ll get caught. I don’t know what your plan is, but I know you have one. Probably a detailed one, with, like, steps.”
“Phases,” I correct him.
His grin widens. “Phases,” he repeats. “Right. Of course. You’ll get out of this,” he promises me.
I know I should consider promises from Jackson worthless. Honestly, though, in his unflinching help, his kindness, his support… I don’t know. He insists he never cheated. I haven’t figured out how to reconcile what I saw, what I know, with the Jackson I’ve encountered over and over in the past hours. I just know the deepest part of me, the one I’ve pushed myself to call naivete or weakness, is no longer convinced he’s lying.
I’m surprised how much his faith in me means. I feel unexpectedly encouraged. “Thanks, Jackson,” I say, meaning it. In this day of lies, it’s nice to say something real.
Suddenly, I shiver, chilled by the champagne dampening my dress.
“Here,” Jackson says. Too quickly for me to object, he takes off his jacket and wraps it around me. He holds the lapels closed in front of me, our foreheads pressed together while I’m wrapped in his scent.
I only pull back when my phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down to read the text message. Queen has sent the dollar bills emoji.
It’s the perfect little pictogram I’ve envisioned for months. It’s even materialized in my dreams on occasion. I established this code for the crew with one unambiguous meaning.
It’s done.
We’re rich.
I look up at Jackson. The fireworks of elation must be visible in my eyes because he beams. It makes me want to laugh, how it’s exactly the look he would give me if my senior year of high school were normal. If I made honor roll or got into my first-choice college or scored the winning goal on the field or something. Instead, I’m standing in the dark, celebrating robbing my father of millions of dollars. It’s surreal. It’s perfect.
“Did you do it?” Jackson asks.
I nod, letting my grin finally spread. My heart pounds in my weightless chest. I feel like I leaped out of an airplane without a parachute and landed on my feet. Powerful. Invincible.
Happy.
The feelings well up in me, urging me to keep chasing the emotion. Without hesitating, I press my lips to Jackson’s, operating on pure impulse.
He’s stunned for a moment, his mouth caught in an exhale. Then, as if he’s made entirely of rogue hunger, he kisses me back fiercely. He clings to the jacket he wrapped around me, pulling me close.
It’s like none of our other kisses, which is saying something. It isn’t just passionate or desperate. It’s greedy. Unrelenting. The consummation of need, the key I sought when I contemplated my heart’s deepest-hidden doors. Desperation and satisfaction in unity. My heist is worth millions—this kiss is priceless.
And everything priceless is dangerous.
I pull away from him far too late, raising my hand to my lips, an investigator looking for evidence of crimes of passion. I can’t believe what I’ve just done—how risky, how uncalculated. How unlike me.
“I—” Jackson starts.
He releases his hand’s grip on the jacket. I face away from him, heat pounding in my cheeks. Desire changing into embarrassment on close examination. How could I? How could I have let him in? I shrug off the jacket, my indiscretion’s prelude, and fling it to Jackson, not caring if he catches the expensive garment. Vigorously, I tear my focus to what I need right now. Escape routes. From the room, and from the questions.
Scanning the dark space, I grasp on to the possibility I noticed earlier. The rectangular window under the ceiling opens onto the grass outside.
“If—” Hearing the wobble in my voice, I swallow, then stand up straight. “If you lift me,” I say, “I can climb out that window, then pull you up. We don’t know if security guards are waiting in the house.”
I walk to the window, ignoring the hurt reflected in Jackson’s eyes. Just because something is priceless doesn’t mean it won’t cost you everything. He follows me after hesitating, and I’m glad he isn’t pushing or objecting. I don’t want to discuss what just happened. Reaching the wall under the windows, he kneels and cups his hands with interlocked fingers for me to step onto.
In preparation, I place a hand on his shoulders to steady myself.
He looks up, directly into my eyes.
“Give me a chance,” he implores. “Let me prove I never sent that message. Just five minutes. Please, Olivia.”
I meet his gaze. The pounding of my heart holds me in place, fight-or-flight impulses wrestling in stalemate. Even while I hesitate, I know what I’m going to say. Maybe it’s the ecstasy of victory sending recklessness coursing through my veins—or maybe I’m just desperate for a reason to forgive Jackson.
I step forward, placing my foot in his hands carefully. “What did you have in mind?”