seen his eyes,” I continue with a shake of my head. “They were big as fucking saucers. He was so excited, didn’t even care that I’d obviously stolen it. He gave me ten grand cash right on the spot like it was chump change, and I walked out feeling like a god.”
“That had to be a high,” Poppy murmurs, and I hum in agreement.
“Some, but when it faded, I didn’t feel like a god. I felt like . . . like a devil. I was exactly what my mom and dad thought I was. So I decided to revel in it, stupidly thinking that by rebelling against them, I could lessen the impact of disappointing them.”
“Then what?”
“Well, I started chasing that high. I did it again, and again. But I was smarter than most. I learned about art, moved from pickpocketing to breaking and entering, and then to more complex methods. I got good. So fucking good. Word spread, and I got hired on for jobs. It would’ve been fine, except . . .”
I swallow thickly, running my hands through my hair as memories of my high-flying days turn sour.
“My grandfather died unexpectedly. I was out of town on a job, and Mom and Dad couldn’t reach me. I didn’t know, so I missed the service completely. My dad was furious, and he’s never forgiven me.” I haven’t forgiven myself either, but this is not about my absolution.
“Dad hasn’t been the same since my grandfather’s death. He . . . retreated, became what you’ve seen of him. Maybe if I’d been here, I could’ve helped somehow. We’ll never know.”
I sigh, leaving behind the pain of those dark days, the solitary visit I made to the gravesite of the man who’d taught me magic tricks as a kid by pulling quarters from behind my ears. Those sleight of hand tricks came in useful in ways he never imagined. In a twisted way, I feel like my stealing is an homage to him, using the things he taught me, though not exactly in the way he’d intended. I wonder sometimes if he’d be ashamed of me or proud of me.
“In one way, it saved me. I stopped stealing for the rush and became a professional in all aspects. So, when I was at the dinner, it was for a job—stealing The Black Rose. It was all set up, the replacement, the bag to take the original piece, the trigger on the lights. Everything.”
Poppy takes a deep breath. “Until me?”
I look at her, wanting her to see the honesty in my eyes. “No. The plan was to swipe it during the one on ones. I’d set it up that way because people don’t remember who was where as accurately when there’s so much movement. It wasn’t personal. Not then. In my prep, I’d gotten a custom bag, something that would allow me to protect the artwork as I made my escape. Then, just as I pulled it out to do the swipe . . . the goddamn thing split in half. I needed something to hide the original in to get out of the ballroom. I grabbed the closest thing to me. Your bag.”
Shame washes over me, wishing I hadn’t gotten her tangled up in all of this. It does seem like fate intervened, though. If the bag hadn’t torn, I wouldn’t have needed one. If she hadn’t been on stage getting her picture taken, I wouldn’t have grabbed her bag. If Hunter hadn’t placed me next door, we never would’ve seen each other again. But all of those things happened precisely to get us where we are now. And that, I wouldn’t change.
“I was collateral damage.”
I wish I could deny that, but it’s the truth. “I was buzzing so much, so focused on getting out of that hotel, I didn’t even notice the weight of the laptop. It was just a bag until I delivered The Black Rose. But as soon as you told me about it, I wanted to help you get it back. I did help you get it back.”
“Yeah, you did,” Poppy admits. “But what about The Black Rose? Where is it?”
I shrug, knowing she’ll be disappointed in my answer. “I don’t keep anything I swipe. The last I saw of it was less than two hours after I took it. Handed it off to my contact, and it’s his problem from then on. “
“So that’s it?” Poppy asks in disbelief. “You took it and then nothing? Just dropped