“My grandfather,” Gabrielle interjected as she reached for Simon’s hands and pulled him to his feet.
“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.
“You could do anything,” she said softly, looking down, wanting him to hear her but not see her. “Why are you doing this?”
His arm was warm against hers. “I always wanted to do the Henley.”
“Can you be serious for a second?”
“Dance with me.”
“What?” she asked, but his arms were already going around her waist. He was already holding her tightly against him.
“Dancing. Come on. You can do it. It’s a lot like navigating through a laser grid. It requires rhythm.” He moved her hips to the beat of the distant music. “And patience.” He spun her out slowly and back toward him. “And it’s only fun if you trust your partner.” The dip was so slow, so smooth, that Kat didn’t know it was happening until the world had already turned upside down and Hale’s face was inches from her own.
“Count me in, Kat.” He squeezed her tighter. “You should always count me in.”
In the hours that followed, a simple kind of peace fell over Wyndham Manor.
Marcus and Nick disappeared inside their third-floor bedrooms. The Bagshaws fell asleep in the solarium while the phonograph played and the party continued in their dreams. Gabrielle did her nails and, for practice, picked Simon’s pocket—twice—before going upstairs and crawling into bed.
Only two members of the party did not find easy sleep.
Kat sat at the base of the stairs for a long time, looking at the pictures, reminding herself of exactly what was at stake.
Uncle Eddie was on his favorite bench. Gabrielle was still more beautiful than any one person ever had the right to be. And Hale was right, Kat had to admit: Taccone’s picture really did capture his good side.
But it was the picture of her father that Kat looked at the longest. She studied the familiar square, the people in the crowd. Amelia Bennett was there, in the background, and somehow Kat felt relieved, remembering that someone was still watching over her father, even if she couldn’t. But then Kat saw someone else.
She fought the urge to curse or feel like a fool. Instead she sat quietly and said, “Oh boy.”
Hale was the only other person still awake. He’d gone into the pantry and closed the door. Standing among the cans of tomato sauce and bags of flour, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
“Uncle Eddie,” Hale said slowly. He took a deep breath. “I think I need your help. Who do we know in Paris?”
3 Days Until Deadline
Chapter 27
In her dream, Kat heard the music. It was louder there, away from the garden, echoing off the glass walls and tiled floors. She looked for Hale, but he was gone, lost among the Henley’s crowd. She craned her neck, searching. But the sun streaming into the room was too bright; the music was too loud. And yet, no one was dancing.
“Hale!” Kat called. “Gabrielle!”
Something was wrong, Kat knew, but it was too late to stop it . . . to stop . . . something.
“Hale!” she called again, but his name was drowned out by the sound that echoed through the atrium: a roar like thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. But outside there was only sun—no clouds, no storm. And yet inside it was raining. A dark cloud formed, blocking out the light as people ran and cried and screamed. But Kat stood still beneath the pouring rain, staring through the parting crowd at a woman near the entrance in a bright red coat and patent leather shoes, staring back at her.
“Mom?” Kat’s voice was barely audible over the approaching police sirens, the museum’s blaring alarms. “Mom!” Kat cried again. She pushed against the sea of bodies, following the woman outside.
And just that quickly, the sun was gone. Night had fallen. The rain began to freeze, and her mother’s red coat stood out against the white blanket of snow that covered the city’s streets.
“Mom!” Kat called, but the woman didn’t turn. “Mom, wait for me!”
Kat ran faster, trying not to fall, but the snow was too deep; her hands grew cold. And in the distance the alarms were still ringing.
I should hide, she thought. I should run. But instead she followed in the woman’s footsteps, searching for the red door, the red coat.
“Mom!” The snow was coming faster now, covering the footprints. “Mom, come back!”
Snowflakes clung to her lashes, ran down her face like tears, while the sirens grew louder, closer, pulling Kat from a dream she didn’t want to leave. She reached out as if there were a way to hold on to the snow, to the night. But the noise was too loud. Kat opened her eyes—she knew her mother was gone and she could not follow.
She reached for her bedside table and turned off her alarm. She closed her eyes, hoping the dream wasn’t gone for good. But her room was already bathed in rare rays of British sunlight; her duvet was heavy and warm, tucked around her in the soft bed. Kat thought of the woman in the red coat, and knew why she hadn’t waited.
There are some places daughters aren’t supposed to follow.
So Kat rolled onto her back, stared at the ornate ceiling, then sighed and said, “Phase three.”
When Kat finally made her way downstairs, Marcus was standing at attention beside the open patio doors, a plate of toast in one hand, a walkie-talkie in the other. Simon sat at the center of a long table, surrounded by laptops and wires. But it was Nick who drew Kat’s attention as he sat at the head of the table, flanked on either side by Hale and Gabrielle.
“Don’t ever ask a question when the answer is no,” Hale told him.
“Don’t ever break character—not even for a second,” Gabrielle added.
“You should always be in control of the conversation,” Hale said.
“Your mark should always think he’s in control of the conversation,” Gabrielle said in turn.
Kat knew that speech. Kat had given that speech.
“And never, ever—” Hale started, but Nick had turned toward Kat, smiling.
“Good morning.” He seemed utterly at home, at ease. “Someone got her beauty sleep.”
Gabrielle looked at Kat’s wild hair and wrinkled pajamas. “That’s not exactly beauty.” She smirked at her cousin. “No offense.”
Before Kat could respond, spirals of dark smoke swirled up from behind the long stone fences that crisscrossed through the fields in the distance, and a scratchy voice boomed from Marcus’s hand.
“How was that?” Angus sounded entirely too pleased with himself.
Gabrielle gestured upward with her thumb, so Marcus pressed the talk button on the walkie-talkie and said, “Bigger.”
Nick glanced at Hale. “Don’t you have neighbors?” he asked.
Hale ignored him. Instead, he leaned closer to Kat. “He isn’t ready,” he told her. “I should do this.”
Kat shook her head. “Wainwright knows your voice.”
“I can do the accent.”
Kat smiled. “Like you did the accent in Hong Kong?”
Hale exhaled loudly. “I can do the accent better this time.”
“No.” Kat didn’t feel like arguing.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, love,” Nick said in the perfect accent of the native Londoner that he was.
