“Our grandfather,” Kat corrected as Simon tried to dip Gabrielle. And failed.
“Who was Eddie’s brother,” Simon said, reaching for the girl who was currently sprawled across a hard floor for the second time in three days.
Across the room, Hale smiled slightly. “We can draw you a diagram if you need it.”
“No thanks,” Nick said. “I think I’ve got everyone but you.”
“Oh.” Hale smirked. “That’s simple.” Kat wasn’t moving— wasn’t dancing—and yet it felt like her heart might pound out of her chest as she watched Hale lean farther into the shadows and say, “I’m the guy who happened to be home the night Kat came to steal a Monet.”
Chapter 26
Hale found her in the garden, staring at a statue of Prometheus that W. W. Hale the First had purchased in Greece and transplanted to Wyndham Manor sometime before the first World War.
“I wouldn’t try stealing that, if I were you.” His voice came from behind her, but Kat didn’t turn.
“The weight would make it hard,” she said.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Hale stop beside her, hands shoved into pockets, looking up. “You’d need a crane,” he said. “Cranes are loud.”
“And big.”
“They leave nasty tracks all over gardens.” Kat could almost feel him smile. “And quads.”
Not for the first time, Kat wanted to ask about Colgan and the Porsche and exactly how he’d done it, but every good thief knows that the only job that matters is the next job. So Kat stayed quiet in the midst of the rosebushes and fountains and perfectly trimmed hedges that ran across three acres like a maze. She stood at the center of it, not at all surprised that he’d found her.
“He stole fire from the gods,” she said flatly, pointing at the statue.
Hale sighed. “The Visily Romani of his time.”
In comparison, even Arturo Taccone didn’t seem like such a threat. The music had been turned up and was floating through the glass and out into the night. Inside, someone was laughing. And Katarina Bishop was standing with Hale in the chilly air, watching his foggy breath.
Hale’s hand found hers. It was big and warm around her cold fingers. It felt like it belonged there. And then, just that quickly, it was gone, and Kat found herself grasping crisp, cold paper.
“I found these, by the way.” Hale studied Kat’s face as she looked down at the manila envelope that she had hoped to never see again.
“How did you . . .”
“Under the rug in your bedroom, Kat? Really?” He laughed. “For an excellent thief, you really are a terrible hider.” She didn’t open the envelope. She already knew too well what was inside. “The one of me is especially nice.” He turned his head. “It captured my good side.”
“I didn’t notice you had one.”
He smiled. “Oh, I think you noticed.” He stepped closer. They were almost touching as he said, “A little bit.”
“Hale—”
“If I kill Taccone, would that help your dad?” Hale asked, and Kat was too tired to gauge if he was joking. “Marcus would do it,” he added. “I’ve always told him his job description was up for modification. Or Gabrielle? She’s got this nail file— thing’s like a switchblade.”
“And you’ve seen a lot of switchblades on Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Hey, the Yacht Club loves a good rumble.”
It was funny. He was funny. Kat wanted to laugh. She tried to will herself to do it. To dance. To be the girl she’d tried—and failed—to be at Colgan.
But instead she inched away from the very kind, very funny, very handsome boy who had followed her into the dark, somehow bringing the music with him.
“Why are you doing this, Hale?”
“What?” he said. He was still too close.