Chapter 22
Maya
Of all the terrible times to get an unwanted visitor. But is there ever a good time for an unwanted visitor? I pull away from Soren and head for the front door.
“Wait.” Soren drags me back. “It could be dangerous.”
All day I’ve been hoping our visitor from last night was a misunderstanding. A drunk guy who tried to get into the wrong place. But Soren’s serious look sets my heart racing.
He said more people want the painting. That’s them. More thieves. And they are going to kill us. I feel like a headless chicken running around except I’m not moving. Which is making my internal freak-out far less effective.
“Hey.” Soren grips me tighter, and I focus my wild gaze on his intent one. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I will protect you, I promise.” He releases one arm to go to the nearest monitor and access the feed, pulling me along with him.
An older lady stands there, a plate of cookies in her hand. I nearly sag to the floor with relief. “It’s Mrs. Morrison.” I pull out of his grasp and head for the door.
“Wait.” He grabs my arm again. “Someone could be with her.”
“There was no one else on the camera feed.”
“There’s always a blind spot.”
“You would know,” I say quickly. Too quickly. It feels like all the ground we covered just rushed back between us. “I’m sorry. I—”
He drops my arm and runs a hand over his beard. “Let’s just go check together, okay?”
I nod and then head for the front entry. Once there, he stands behind the door to remain unseen and whispers for me to open it only a crack.
Slowly, I unlock the two deadbolts and inch the door open.
“Mrs. Morrison, what a surprise!” I muster all the Christmas spirit I can into my voice. I fear I fall short… or insincere at the very least.
“Merry Christmas, dear.” She smiles her fifty percent fake smile, not just because half of it has been surgically altered. “The Hartwells told me you were here for the holidays, and I thought I’d bring over some cheer.”
I don’t believe her for a second. The Hartwells aren’t close enough to anyone to reach out on my behalf.
Mrs. Morrison has been over to visit the Hartwells a couple of times since I came to work here, but each visit is awkward and stilted, lasting ten minutes at most. I don’t know what she talks about with them, but it’s a conversation no one cares to entertain long.
According to the staff gossip, Mrs. Morrison has been bitter ever since the Hartwells bought this apartment three years ago.
She wanted it herself and almost prevented them from getting it by paying off the inspector.
But in the end they won, and she’d been forced to “settle” with the smaller top-floor penthouse down the street.
“How sweet,” I say, reaching for the cookies, but Mrs. Morrison has placed herself far enough away to prevent me from taking them. She’s waiting for an invitation she’s not going to get. I know her real motivation. She wants gossip.
“Where is that sweet little girl?” She peers over my shoulder, and I pull the door closer to my body. Never has she referred to Bella as sweet.
“She’s packing for a trip with her parents,” I say, choosing my words carefully. There’s no telling which ones the nosy neighbor will fixate on.
“A trip? How fun. I thought they were already on one.” She tilts her head to the side, in an attempt to entice out more information I won’t be giving.
“Mm-hmm,” I say simply, then try again, unsuccessfully, to reach for the cookies. I didn’t want the sugar, anyway.
Lies. I really do. I bet it's even real sugar. And after the Christmas I’ve had, I feel like I deserve it. I send one last longing look at the chocolate chip circles of goodness. “Well, thanks again for stopping by.” I move to close the door on her scowl when a sound stops me.
A scream.
Bella. I turn, sprinting away from Mrs. Morrison and her privileged cookies and up the stairs.
I’m not sure where Soren is, but he’s not behind me.
The scream comes again but not from Bella’s room. It’s coming from the library.
Why is she there?
I come to a screeching halt in the doorway. A man dressed in black has a hold on Bella, a crystal box raised in the other hand like he aims to hurt her with it.
My heart plummets to the floor, and for a moment I feel like I’m going to hurl.
Soren somehow beat me here and is ten feet away, arms out, trying to calm the man in the mask and also comfort Bella, who has never seemed so small.
“Where is it?” the masked man yells.
“Let the girl go, and we’ll talk,” Soren says, inching closer to Bella, whose wide, tearful eyes plead with me to save her.
The guy has only a crystal box. I could rush him and save Bella before he did anything to either of us.
The worst I’d get is a concussion. Two in forty-eight hours probably isn’t ideal, but there’s nothing I won’t do to save her.
I try to communicate telepathically to Soren that I’m going in, but he’s not looking at me as he scoots forward a step.
I inch my way closer as well.
“Give it to me first,” the man sneers.
“What is it you’re looking for?” I ask, my voice braver than I imagined. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve already come face-to-face with one thief on Christmas. Something tells me this isn’t another ex. No one could possibly be that unlucky.
“Don’t,” Soren hisses to me, but this man has my favorite little girl in the world, and I’m not afraid.
“I want the painting,” the man says.
“This again?” I roll my eyes. “You’re late to the party. Another thief has already come for it.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were. Believe me, this was not the holiday I imagined.” I sigh dramatically, continuing my slow scoot toward them. Soren makes the final point of our triangle, closing in on him as well.
“Then I guess I’ll have to take something else,” the man says, and in one swift movement, throws the crystal box at the glass display case. The case shatters, and the man rushes forward, snatching items at random.
Soren has already reached Bella and shoves her toward me, and I fold her into my arms.
“Keep her safe,” he says, running after the man. The man sees him coming and sprints out of the room.
Bella collapses into sobs in my arms, and I hold her as tight as she needs to be held. Is it too late to claim this was all an act as well? If it were, the broken display case took it too far.
“Let’s go to your room,” I say.
But she pulls away. “He took grandfather’s watch. And the Aztec tablet Mom loves.”
Not the Aztec tablet. That needs to be handled with extreme care. I rush to the case to see what else is missing, and in that split moment, Bella runs out the door.
“Bella, stop!” I yell, following after her, but the girl is quick when she’s determined. I catch sight of her slipping through the emergency stairwell. “Bella!” I warn. “I’ll have to call your mom.”
The threat falls flat, which is unsurprising. I follow the sound of her clomping feet down one story, but the sound has disappeared. She must have gone out on this floor.
I open it, catching sight of her wild blonde locks as they fly around the corner.
“You’re getting a time-out!” I yell. That doesn’t work either. Clearly, this child needs more discipline than I’ve been authorized to give.
I sprint after her. How am I slower than a nine-year-old?
Music thumps loudly through the hall, drowning out my hope of hearing her. There’s an open door leading to the music, and I take my chances. If I were Bella, I’d go to the music.
Colorful holiday lights are the only source of illumination at the glittering party. It’s somehow both overwhelming and tasteful, or it would be, if I hadn’t lost a child to its rapture.
“Bella!” I try again, but my voice is swallowed by the noise. I could yell and scream and never be heard.
I’ve lost her.
Worst holiday ever.