"So you're not picking up the backhoe on Friday?"
"Oh, we're picking up the backhoe," Anthony said. "But the safe? Eh, it's hard to say."
I wasn't liking the sound of this. "But you're not going to just leave it on the counter, are you?"
"Sure we are," Steve said, "where else would we put it?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe in a closet or something?"
"Nah," Steve said. "A closet's no good."
I felt my gaze narrow. "It's nothing illegal, is it?"
"Hell no," Steve said, looking almost insulted. "How dumb do you think we are?"
"Sorry," I stammered, "it's just that—"
"If it were illegal," Steve said, "we'd put it in the basement, maybe dig a hole down there or something."
"Yeah," Anthony agreed, "I mean, we wouldn’t just leave it outhere, for anyone to see. You think we're nuts?"
Choosing to believe this was a rhetorical question, I opened the nearest pizza box and took a slice. Before biting into it, I said, "I don't even have a basement."
"Sure you do," Steve said. "I can tell by the structure."
"Well, yeah," I said. "Technically, I guess I do. But it's not like a basement-basement."
"No kidding?" Anthony said. "What is it?"
"Well, actually, it's a wine cellar."
Steve grinned. "No way. You got a wine cellar?" He leaned forward. "Is it just wine? Or beer, too?"
I gave it some thought. "As far asIknow? Just wine."
Steve was no longer smiling. "Well, that sucks."
Anthony said, "As far as you know? What does that mean?"
Briefly, I relayed the story of my wine cellar. Shortly after the death of my parents, Derek's dad had hired a locksmith to secure the door that led to the wine cellar steps. At the time, he'd claimed it was a liability issue, because I'd been under the legal drinking age.
But looking back, I wasn't sure this was the real reason. After all, Aunt Gina, who'd been my guardian at the time, had been in her thirties. And shedidlove her wine.
Then again, maybe that was the problem.
Before I knew it, we were all standing around the wine cellar door. It was located off a small hallway near my kitchen. The door was made of thick, ancient oak and secured with a much newer lock, which had been drilled a couple of inches above the doorknob.
Even though I was now weeks past my twenty-first birthday, I still didn't have a key. And given my newly hostile relationship with Derek, I knew the odds of getting one.
They weren't good.
Thinking out loud, I said, "Maybe I should call a locksmith."
"Screw a locksmith," Steve said. "We can get this."
"You can?" I said. "How?"
"Like with an ax." He shrugged. "Or maybe a crowbar."
