Page 13 of Five Stolen Rings
Regardless, when I head over to Maude Ellery’s later that evening, it’s with a forced determination to do my job thoroughly and well—even though it still feels like something is rotting in my gut, thanks to last night’s encounter.
The wind is harsh today, blowing away what’s left of the weak sunlight like a candle being snuffed. Jack was right; it snowed last night, and there’s not a lot of it, but it is slick. I traverse the sidewalk in front of Maude’s house, unsteady in my boots, holding my hands over my ears in an attempt to prevent them getting too cold.
I get migraines when my ears get too cold; I always have. I should have worn a hat.
The alcove of the front porch is a welcome break when I get there, and I punch the key code in quickly, shivering and shuddering in the snow-stung wind. I’m actually glad to get inside, even though the house still has that same creepy air it had yesterday.
I look around as I step out of my boots in the entryway, half-expecting Jack to be here.
He’s not, of course—and thank goodness. I don’t need him showing up in the house I’m watching, trying to steal who-knows-what from his stepmother and her weird half-naked self-portraits.
Still, even as I go about my chores—feeding the birds, pouring food for the elusive cats I have yet to meet, airing out rooms—a little thought sticks to my mind like a burr: What if he comes back? Or, possibly even worse, what if he’s already been here today?
Because he really did make it sound like he was going to return. And if he’s looking for something he didn’t find last night…
How can I keep him out of this place?
“When did you turn into a thief, Jack?” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my forehead as though that will dispel my blooming migraine.
Jack was never a bad person. He was maybe a punk in high school after we went our proverbial separate ways, a rebel and a loner, but he was neverbad.
I don’t know who or what he is now. But I’m not letting him get into this house and steal from his stepmother. Because I need her to pay me,dangit, and I doubt she will do that if I let someone waltz right in and take a bunch of stuff from her bedroom.
“How did he get in yesterday?” I say as I inspect the living room windows after I’ve finished everything else. “Is it just because these were already open?”
It is, I realize. He removed the screen and never put it back, which means I have to do it. Once I’ve popped it back in place, I close the window again. I fiddle with the locks in the room, testing them, opening and closing, until I come to the unfortunate conclusion that while three of the windowlocks seem to be in perfect working order, one of them is not.
“All right,” I say. “In that case…”
I guess I could pull a Kevin McCallister, the kid fromHome Alone.I need to put up some Christmas decorations, and at some point I have to go home, so I can’t sit and guard this window all night. But I could probably booby trap it. Then at least I would know if Jack had been here.
And I wouldn’t say no to inconveniencing him in the process. Stealing is wrong; breaking into a house, even his stepmother’s, is wrong. I see no reason I should make it easy.
What should I put there, though? InHome Alonehe used glass ornaments, didn’t he? Or was it marbles?
I’m not cruel enough to use glass, and Jack would be wearing shoes anyway. I don’t have any marbles, but I do have access to a large, fancy kitchen…
“Hey,” I say to India over the phone ten minutes later. “I have a super weird request.”
“Always lead with that,” she says. “The answer is already yes. What do you need?”
“Your sister bakes a lot, right?” I say, staring down at the two rolling pins placed in front of the window. “Does she have any rolling pins I could borrow?”
“Definitely,” India says. “You need some?”
“I do,” I say. “Are you free right now?”
“Yeah,” India says. “I got off work two hours ago. I can bring them over.” She pauses. “Why, though?”
I don’t know why, but I haven’t told India about seeing Jack yet. I’m still working out how I feel and what I think. So instead of going into details, I just say, “It’s hard to explain. Could you run them over to the place I’m house-sitting?”
“Sure,” India says, and I picture her shrugging. “Juliet won’t mind.”
I know she won’t, because Juliet Marigold is the single sweetest human being on the face of the earth.
“Tell her thank you for me!” I say.
“I will,” India says. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll head out. Send me the address.”
