Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,3

as she neared her destination.

Annoyed with herself, she put that night and its after-effects out of her mind. She swiped a line of sweat from her neck. She needed a cold drink, something fizzy and bright to wake her up. The shoebox convenience store, with its rotting siding and worm bait advertisement, didn’t look particularly convenient, but it would do. Still, she didn’t move.

Her attention dragged to that lone tree. It stood tall and stoic. Strong. Resilient. Alone. An unnamed ache spread through her chest and she rubbed her breastbone.

“Passing through?”

She swiveled. The pipe-smoking man was intent on her, his skin as weathered as the scorched earth. The wooden sign above him hung at an angle. Thanks to the odd slant, its painted arrow pointed toward the ground. It read: This way to Whichway. She snickered.

“That’s how the town got its name,” he said, his voice like crunching snow.

“Excuse me?”

“Whichway.”

“What way?”

“The town down the road.” His rocking chair chewed over gravelly pebbles. “There ain’t much to see there. Farms. Prairie. That big ’ol factory. No reason to stop and visit, but it’s on the way to larger counties. Folks passin’ through often ask directions: Which way to here? Which way to there?” He shrugged. “And the town of Whichway got slapped on a map.”

Right. Whichway. The Elvis-infested town where she’d be living for a few weeks. She was always meticulous about her research. She knew exactly where the town was and how it had been named, but she felt hazy, grappling to follow their conversation.

She jerked her mind back on target.

For the next few weeks she would be Samantha Rowen, not Clementine Abernathy. She’d be a music producer and judge for the town’s famed Elvis Festival—a gig somehow secured by Lucien. She’d find Maxwell David and charm the man until she’d located his family’s priceless Van Gogh, a treasure the overpaid tycoon didn’t deserve. Lucien would fence their prize, the money earned would help those who couldn’t help themselves, then she’d be back in New York, her job done, her classic car loud, her apartment quiet, her remaining hours spent talking to a bearded dragon who couldn’t talk back. There would be no girls’ nights.

Nothing about this job should be different than her others. But that lone tree drew her attention again, muddling her thoughts.

Music cut through her stupor, a lively beat building from down the road. A car punched through the hazy heat, and Clementine’s jaw dropped. Chryslers were always hip and classic, this one likely from 1955, but its porcelain green paint job was exquisite.

She eyed her rental car, the meek Prius mildly offensive. At home, she wouldn’t be caught dead in that horror show. But in forty minutes, when she rolled into Whichway, she’d be a character. A show. A congenial woman who’d chat about her friends and family and how full her life was.

She gritted her teeth and focused on the sexy Chrysler. The stunner pulled up to the gas pump. A colorful man stepped out. He had a sweep of gelled black hair, thick sideburns, rhinestone-studded sunglasses, and a patterned polyester shirt with lapels large enough to take flight. His Rolex was definitely a fake, but his elaborate persona wasn’t, and her on-the-job radar pricked up.

This man was an Elvis. But was he her Elvis?

Lucien’s folder detailing her mark had been on the thin side. She knew Maxwell David went for morning runs, followed by a coffee and pastry, usually an apple turnover. Strawberry when feeling frisky. He then spent hours at his office, no doubt scheming ways to pad his wallet while overworking his employees. He was also an Elvis impersonator, one of the hundred-odd performers vying for the crown of top tribute artist.

She knew these details and others about Maxwell David, CFO of David Industries. What she didn’t have was a clear picture of him. The man shied away from social media. David Industries didn’t have an online presence. Whoever Lucien had hired to snap surveillance photos had had a shaky hand and an overly large thumb, always obscuring Maxwell’s face.

She squinted at this particular Elvis, deducing he was too old to be her mark. When he winked at her and belched, she thanked her lucky stars.

Taking that as her cue, she bought a Pepsi, even though she hated Pepsi. The pickings at the inconvenient convenience store were on the gaunt side of slim. She hit the road and pressed the cool can to her forehead. Elvis and that lone tree faded in