Chapter 27 #2
“This is what’s wrong with you, you know? You only see people for the ways they can be used. The way they serve your purpose.” There’s the slightest tremor to Trip’s voice. “And you don’t understand how anyone could feel differently. That some of us might feel compassion, or sympathy, or love—”
“Watch it, boy.” John’s words are a knife. “Don’t tell me I don’t know about love.”
They stand there, staring into each other’s eyes, like mirror images but sixty years apart. An energy radiates between them, crackling. The lamp on John’s desk begins to flicker on.
Oh shit. The security system. Trip’s interference is failing.
“Trip…”
My voice has no effect on their staring contest.
“John.” I direct my words at the elder, but both turn to face me. I point at the ceiling. “We’re about to trigger what I assume is a very extensive alarm system. And when I say we, I really mean me, because I am the only actual person in this room.”
My heart rate is like a train pulling out of the station, accelerating with every contraction. I cannot get caught setting off the alarm in the Coldwell house. Throwing myself off the rooftop terrace might be preferable.
I press my palms together. “Now if you”—I turn to Trip—“want any hope at a life, and you”—I turn to John—“want to go…on…in peace, I suggest we find this deck.”
“Second drawer on the left,” they say in unison, then furrow their eyebrows at each other.
This is seriously some Freaky Friday shit.
“Okay…” I maneuver my way around the desk and wave my arms like a buffoon, ushering John to the side.
The man could just walk through me, for Christ’s sake.
No need for manners. I squat down in front of the desk, running my hand from the first drawer to the second and clasping the worn metal handle.
I give a tug, but the wood sticks. Bracing my other hand on the frame of the desk, I shimmy the drawer until it slides loose and hits the carpet with a thud.
I look up apologetically at the Coldwells and grimace. “Sorry.”
The contents of the drawer litter the rug, but it makes my treasure hunt easier. A cigarette lighter, some sort of antique looking glass, a broken watch. Rich people, they have junk drawers just like the rest of us.
“Elz, over here.” Trip aims his foot at a small rectangle near the corner of the rug.
I rush over to it and pick it up. The box fits in my palm, a nondescript maroon-colored cardboard. I turn it over and see a small embossed C in the corner on one side. There are no labels otherwise.
I slide my finger under the flap and release it, tapping the box against my palm. The uneven feel of paper against my hand, followed by a flash of red and black, is confirmation enough. Playing cards.
There’s a low hum from the radiator under the window and the desk lamp begins to blink in an erratic pattern. It’s enough of a sign for me. I slide the cards back into the deck and stick it in my sweatshirt pocket.
Dropping to my knees, I scoop up the various knickknacks from the floor and dump them back into the drawer.
Tiny paper clips, beads, and rubber bands disappear in the loud pattern of the Oriental rug.
I swear under my breath. Trip and John point out items I miss like a couple of backseat drivers.
I doubt Cynthia will notice a few pieces of junk on the floor, but I won’t take any chances.
With the rug as clean as it’s going to get, I lift the drawer and align it with the empty space in the desk. I give a push and the wood scrapes against the sides. Shit. I angle the drawer to find a better fit.
“Tilt the back of the drawer down a bit.” Trip’s voice comes over my shoulder.
“You have to jiggle it a bit at the opening.” John’s baritone booms from the other side of the desk.
“Quiet, both of you.” I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. There’s no way around it. The desk is ancient. Who knows the last time this drawer was even opened? “I’m going to have to force it in.”
Please don’t break. Please don’t break.
I press my palms flush against the front of the mahogany drawer and push hard.
Light illuminates the room as every lamp flickers to life.
A harsh, high-pitched beeping bounces off the walls like a Ping-Pong ball. My hands fly to cover my ears, abandoning the drawer.
The alarm.
“Elz.” Trip’s voice is strained.
“I know, I know.” I shove my shoulder against the drawer and it gives a few inches. “Just one more.” Slamming my palm against the wood, something finally clicks, and it slides the rest of the way in.
I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, opening the door of the library and sprinting into the hall.
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and cinch the tie at my neck.
Hopefully it’s enough to obscure my appearance for any camera feed.
The plush carpet muffles my steps as I fly down the hall, one hand gripping the deck of cards in my pocket like the precious stolen goods they are.
I take the stairs two at a time. There’s a shadow in my periphery. Trip. I grip the banister to steady my shaking limbs but don’t stop, don’t slow down.
The door to Carter’s room is already open and I run through it, closing it behind me. Was it open when we got here? Oh well. Clearly, I would fail in any real heist scenario.
The incessant beeping pounds in my skull, each chime a countdown to when a bomb detonates. To when I’m caught.
“Can you get the window?” Trip’s voice is breathless behind me.
“I got it.” I grab the lift below the bottom pane. Luckily, unlike the drawer, the window slides open easily. I hike my knees over the sill and drop onto the metal fire escape with a clang.