The difference between getting caught and executing a perfect heist is planning.
Clementine closed her eyes and silently repeated her mantra. Lucien’s mantra, really. Her mentor’s quote usually calmed her revving pulse, and they’d reviewed every inch of this job backward and forward. There would be no fumbles. But her chest felt like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. She counted her inhales and exhales until her heart rate decelerated from Ferrari fast to Tonka Truck chug.
Ned Compton’s townhome was quiet. He’d left for his Italian villa, as expected. The neighbors were snoozing. Clementine had cut the alarm. No fuss, no muss.
Eyes wide. Stay focused. Get the job done.
She clicked on her headlamp and glided down the hall, took the stairs to the upper level, and slipped into Ned’s study quiet as a cloud. The Brendan Monroe painting above the wainscoting was striking, even in the dim light. It wasn’t the exquisite artwork she was after, though. She’d be stealing the 8.47 carat diamond ring behind it.
According to Lucien’s intel, Ned had purchased the extravagant piece of jewelry at auction—a Saudi princess’s engagement ring, likely for the Italian girlfriend he regularly cheated on, or one of his mistresses. Ned’s internet activity indicated he’d ordered a new safe. Something harder to crack for his precious purchase. It was due to arrive next week.
Clementine lifted the painting, relieved to find the old safe she’d been expecting. She propped it against the mahogany desk, her eyes skimming over a few framed photos: Ned fishing with a group of guys, Ned with his girlfriend (who had crappy taste in men), Ned at a country home, flanked by smiling people, probably family. Clementine’s heart rate switched tactics, dulling to a sluggish thud. The only photo in her apartment was of little Nisha, and she’d only met that girl once.
But Nisha and orphans like her were the reason Clementine was dressed in black, hair in a tight bun, black gloves secured, about to steal from Ned Compton.
Working faster, she removed her small backpack and pulled out her stethoscope. She’d always enjoyed this part of the job, the simple mechanics of machinery. Black and white. Right or wrong. Stethoscope placed over the lock, she listened for the faint click of the drive-cam notch sliding under the lever arm. She twisted the dial slowly and held her breath. There…just there. Two distinct clicks.
A snarly bark cut through her focus, and her eyes snapped to the office window. Lucien hadn’t mentioned a neighborhood dog, which meant she didn’t have her tranquilizer darts. But she did have liver treats. The noise had come from her exit route out back. Her only other option was the front door, a poor choice in this populated area, no matter the late hour. That pooch better be out for a quick pee.
Attention back on target, she noted the contact point she’d found and turned the dial 180 degrees to park it in place, then spun the dial methodically, straining to hear the telltale click of another wheel being picked up. Three wheels total. All she needed now were those three numbers.
She pulled out her pad and paper and resumed her position, listening, twisting: click…click. She graphed the found numbers.
Most kids learned basic math to answer textbook questions. Lucien’s homeschooling had held more of an edge. “If you get the x or y values wrong,” he’d say, “you’ll get the wrong numbers, you’ll work slower, and you could wind up in jail.”
She’d have taken jail back then over returning to foster hell.
Another snarl sounded. She worked faster.
She finished the graphs, recorded where the lines overlapped—23, 12, 66—and tried the three numbers. No luck. She reversed and reordered them. Nothing. One of the numbers had to be off, which meant she had to start over.
Twelve trials later, the clack and thunk of success vibrated behind the dial, and she swung the door open. The rush of adrenaline should have had her doing a silent fist-pump, but her senses felt dulled. Stacked papers filled half the safe, along with a small cream box that would house a ring—right there, for her taking. No different than the other paintings or jewels she’d lifted. Still, her determination wavered.
Ned was a creep who cheated on his girlfriend. Fencing the ring to ensure kids were fed and clothed trumped his superfluous “needs.” So why was a slick of guilt coating her stomach?
She flexed her fingers and gave her head a shake. She’d been off-balance all day. All year, really. Longer if she counted the