Page 9 of Five Stolen Rings
But I just grab hold again. There are muscles here that I don’t remember; I dig my fingers in, pullingharder still. “I’m so serious, Jack,” I say as my gaze darts around—I’m not convinced about theno camerasthing. “You need to go. She will not pay me if I let you steal from her. Get out of here.”
“You’reso serious?” he says mockingly, freeing himself from my grip once more. Then he spins his body to face mine, towering over me. “Tell you what, Princess—tell me what happened to your shiny architect job, and maybe I’ll leave for the night.”
My heart drops as silence blooms between us.
“Nothing,” I manage to get out finally. I clear my throat. “Nothing. The job is fine.”
“Uh-huh,” he says with thick skepticism, his dark eyes ping-ponging over my features. He scoffs and turns back to his rummaging. “Little liar.”
I throw my hands up in the air as frustration and anxiety surge through me. “Well, what aboutyou?” I say. “If you’re trying to steal from your stepmom, you’ve got problems too.” I gesture at him. “Is this who you’ve turned into? I never expected much, but goodgrief.”
And I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth—whilethey’re leaving my mouth, in fact, because I don’t mean them.
“Sorry.” I push the apology out, clipped and tense. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
When he finally looks at me, Jack’s eyes are void of emotion or expression. “Don’t apologize for telling the truth, Princess.” The name is sarcastic. “We both know I’ve never lived up to your standards.”
I have a response for this—I havemanyresponses for this—but I don’t get to reply. A buzzing noise sounds from his jeans pocket, and he digs his phone out quickly, looking at it and then swearing under his breath.
“The worst timing,” he mutters, a frustrated expression crossing his face. He doesn’t even bother straightening the items on the vanity that he’s messed up. He just turns on his heel and crosses the room in several long strides, stopping when he’s passing into the hallway. He hesitates briefly and then jerks his chin over his shoulder, at the bedroom windows. “Don’t stay too late,” he says stiffly. “It’s supposed to snow.”
And then, before I can say anything else, he’s gone—out of the room, thudding down the stairs, and through the front door.
It slams closed behind him, and the sound echoes in my brain long after I’ve left Maude Ellery’s house.
STELLA || TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO
The treehouse is old and small, but Jack and I still play there anyway.
“Slow down,” I say from down on the ground as he clambers up the ladder ahead of me.
“You hurry up,” he retorts over his shoulder. He disappears into the tree house, and I start up the ladder after him.
We met on the playground, Jack and I. He was in second grade while I was in first, and we both got in trouble for refusing to take turns on the swirly slide. We crammed ourselves in together, got stuck halfway down, and had to try to climb out, which resulted in a fall (both of us), a broken arm (Jack), and a sprained wrist (me).
We maybe should have hated each other after that, but we didn’t. He told me I was brave while trying to hold back his tears, and I told him next time we should try going down in a line instead of side by side.
We’ve been best friends ever since—and now we’re going to make it official.
I reach the top of the ladder in no time and crawl into the treehouse, ducking my head. I have to go home soon, so we’re hurrying.
“Here are the rules,” Jack says as I seat myself in front of him. His dark hair flops over his forehead, and his eyes are bright as he talks. “After we make this promise, we’re best friends forever. If we break the promise, we die.”
My eyes widen in fear, and then they narrow. “You’re a liar,” I say. “We won’t die.”
“We’ll wish we had died,” he says solemnly, “because we’ll be so sad.”
“Wow,” I say, my voice soft and full of awe. “Let’s never break it. Even if we don’t like each other someday.”
“I’ll always like you,” Jack says, his tone confident now. “And you’ll probably always like me too.”
I bet he’s right. I don’t like to tell him, but secretly I think he’s smarter than me. He’s one year older, so he knows more grown-up stuff—like he says fourth grade is harder than third grade, and he knows how to do multiplication too.
“Are you ready?” he says. He holds up the needle we stole from the sewing kit in the cabinet above his refrigerator.
“Areyouready?” I shoot back at him, because he seems a little nervous, which makes me feel better. “I hope you’re not a scaredy cat.”
“I’m not a scaredy cat,” he says with a defiant look. “Watch.” He holds out his hand and then, with almost no hesitation, he pricks his finger. He’s so brave that he barely even winces.
