Page 62 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Yevgen Liski was how things had been. The man had popped up occasionally the past year: a sighting here, a sighting there, always with him flashing his knife tattoo from a distance. He’d swiped a ruby necklace from under her and Lucien a day before they could execute their planned heist. In the past, losing a score to another burglar would push her to work harder and faster. Competition lit a fire in her gut. That time it had been a relief, a job she wouldn’t have to complete.

Yevgen, on the other hand, thrived on risky jobs, newspaper-worthy thefts. The ruby necklace had been notorious, owned by one of Chicago’s elite. Right up his alley. If Lucien said the Van Gogh was under the radar, no one else would have tracked it, and Yevgen wouldn’t give it the time of day. Still, Clementine’s mind snagged on one of her worst memories, the moment Yevgen had pushed his knife into her gut, followed by his ominous words: No one you love will ever be safe.

She loved Lucien, but Lucien could handle himself. What would happen if she fell fully in love with Jack? She was halfway there already. Did that mean Yevgen would find her and hurt Jack for his psychotic thrills? Hurt Chloe or Jack’s family?

A chill swept through her, and she glanced at her purse. Yevgen’s bloodied shirt shred was in there. She’d kept it as a reminder. It was also insurance—she had his DNA. If he pushed, she’d break the burglar code: Thou Shalt Not Snitch. The odds of ever needing it were minimal. She had driven to a nondescript town, so small you couldn’t find it on a map. She’d broken professional ties with Lucien. But having it made her feel better.

She chatted with Lucien a bit longer, then said goodbye. Not a forever goodbye. A see you very soon goodbye. A lump of sadness sat in her throat afterward, for him and the children she’d let down, but nerves and excitement pushed and pulled her in a million directions. Her body vibrated with the thrill of the unknown. She had cut herself loose and had saved the painting. With or without Jack, she’d learn to sink or swim, like that song written about her name…except she’d never learned to swim. A small technicality.

Her lack of résumé or school diploma would be an issue, but if Lucien had taught her anything, it was how to use her best assets. She excelled and focusing when stressed, finding weaknesses to exploit. In the work world, that meant finding where a business was struggling and proving you could fix it. She could eventually source a charitable organization that needed her skillset. First she’d get a job in a garage, make an honest living. If Jack didn’t turn her in.

He was performing at the festival’s opening concert this evening. She shouldn’t go. He wouldn’t want her there. She hurried to the shower anyway.

* * *

Clementine walked through Whichway’s main street, flabbergasted. She’d never had call to use the word flabbergasted, but the situation warranted the term. Thousands of people filled the road and cobbled sidewalks. Vendors were crammed into side streets—booths selling lemonade and souvlaki and corndogs. Kids skipped happily, fingers and mouths pink with cotton candy. There were lineups to buy fake sideburns and Elvis wigs. Posters of the King filled other kiosks. Several Elvi mingled, stopping to pose for photos and sign autographs.

It was like stepping into an Elvis snow globe.

She bought a peanut butter and banana sandwich—one of the King’s favorite foods—and munched while she walked. She didn’t have anywhere she needed to be, no mark to seduce. She was even in jean shorts and her I like it hard and fast muscle car tank top. There was no role to play. She couldn’t quit smiling.

“My daughter ditched me.” Imelda appeared out of nowhere and matched Clementine’s lazy stride. “She’s thirteen and already too cool for her momma.”

Clementine finished her sandwich and licked peanut butter from her fingers. “How is it possible your daughter’s thirteen? You barely look thirty.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason.” She bumped her hip into Clementine’s. “And I had her young because of hormones. I got knocked up at eighteen.”

Clementine had been robbing penthouses at eighteen. “Did you marry right away?”

It was a direct question, but Clementine had seen Imelda three times the past few days, in Wherever park (after Jack’s running hour), in the Whatnot Diner (after Jack’s morning coffee), at Whenever Bar (on Jack’s off night). They’d chatted at length, more about movies and music, and Imelda had gossiped about this customer’s pain-in-the-butt dog or that person’s horrible lawn. Clementine had even shared that she’d been in the foster system. She hadn’t mentioned her mother and father’s deaths like she had with Jack, but it had felt good and real to be honest with a friend. Imelda had replied with a fierce hug.

“Lawson proposed the second I told him I was pregnant,” Imelda said. “But it wasn’t obligation. We were silly for each other. I still love the idiot, even when he drives me batty.”

A blush highlighted her rounded cheeks, and jealousy careened into Clementine. She wanted an idiot to love. She wanted Jack to drive her nuts. “So you two were happy just having one child?”

Imelda moved her hand to her belly. “We tried for more, but it wasn’t in the cards for us. We’re blessed with what we have.”

They sure were.

Music strummed from a main stage a block down, and Clementine stopped. The sun wouldn’t set for another couple of hours, the temperature fresh and breezy. Still, sweat slicked her palms. Jack would be performing shortly, like any minute. She shouldn’t have come. She eyed the crowd vaguely, unsure if she should move forward or retreat. A kid wearing fake sideburns did an Elvis hip sway, delighting his parents. A young couple walked arm-in-arm as a man in a sparkly Elvis hat passed behind them.

Suddenly, the back of Clementine’s neck prickled. As though someone was watching her. She spun around, scanned the tourists, searching for anything odd. Ridiculous when everything about an Elvis festival was odd. Still, her intuition flared.

“Jack’s on soon!” Imelda called. She was several strides ahead, frowning, probably wondering why Clementine was impersonating an obsessive prairie dog.

She scanned the smiling tourists again, searched faces, postures, clothes, and came up empty. She ground her teeth. This was because of her life, the choices she’d made. She was insane to think she could just walk away from burgling unaffected. She’d probably spend the rest of her life neurotic, looking over her shoulder, waiting for the rug to be swept from under her feet. Still, she should message Lucien later, ask him again to send out feelers, make sure no one else was in town.

“Did you hear me?” Imelda said, now at her side. “Jack’s on soon.”

“Yeah, sorry. I know.” Clementine knew exactly when Jack was on. She had memorized his schedule. A more immediate dilemma than her overactive imagination.

“He’ll want you there.”

She laughed. “He won’t.”

“Isn’t this the same man who dragged you, panting, from the bar?”

The very same one who knew her history and hadn’t called in three days. She chewed her cheek.