Page 89 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

He massaged his temple while promising Marco he’d explain about his father tomorrow. He hung up and focused on his good moments with Clementine. The real ones. She’d been excited to come tonight. She’d planned to record his show tomorrow, spend time with his family next week to watch it. It wasn’t the same as his father watching the show live, but knowing they’d been in Clementine’s thoughts had meant the world. Her about-face tonight—dodgy behavior and edgy movements—stood out as the lies.

If that was true, it didn’t explain the why of them.

“Can I talk to you, Jack?” Imelda stood at the door.

“Of course.” It would give him time to question her, see if she found Clementine’s behavior off.

She held her phone in one hand and scratched her neck with the other, her usually upbeat demeanor subdued. “I think Clementine’s in trouble.”

First Marco, now Imelda. Worry whipped through him. “What happened?”

She glanced at her phone like it might leap up and bite her. “She left her cell at home and used mine. Aside from the fact that she basically yanked it out of my hand and ignored my questions, she bolted from the auditorium faster than Lawson when I ask him to clean the garage. Didn’t bother logging out of her email.” Tentatively, she held it toward him. “I think you should read this.”

Reading Clementine’s email was an invasion of privacy, and he wasn’t sure getting in deeper with her was smart. He loved her, found it tough to breathe through the unrelenting heartache, but she’d point blank said her life wasn’t Jack’s concern. Too much felt wrong, though. She could be in trouble. Speeding and crying didn’t jive with the woman who’d coldly brushed him off.

He took the phone and read the first message.

The only gullible one here is you. And you fell for your mark? That’s pathetic. I don’t care if Lucien has the Van Gogh. I’m after something shinier and legendary. Hope no one gets in my way. Wouldn’t want a repeat of the Monet job…

He squinted and rubbed his brow. The email was from Clinton Abernathy, and the only Clinton Clementine had mentioned had been her deceased father. Unless she’d lied about his death. The mention of the Monet rang an ominous bell, too. He paced as he strained his brain for the connection. The Monet job—the job Clementine had described where she’d been stabbed. His own gut pitted at the memory, her father’s name only confusing him more.

He scanned the message again, desperate for a clue. Lucien didn’t have the Van Gogh. That much he knew. Jack had sold it. He’d parted with the forgery as well, bringing both along to validate the original. There were lots of shiny things at the estate. But legendary?

He pushed that message up, read the next one.

Daddy loved you, Clementine. And he’s dead. No one you love will ever be safe.

Fear fisted his lungs. Not a subtle threat. He wanted to drop the phone and race to find her, but the random notes muddled with tonight’s seesawing emotions, leaving it all unclear.

Mind running faster than a spiny-tailed iguana, he scrolled down farther, needing something to grasp. The next message was clearly one of Clementine’s notes to her father. The few sections he scanned—I hate that you’re gone, I wish you could tell me what to do—indicated that he was, in fact, deceased and unable to email.

Had the account been accessed by someone else?

He read more slowly. Confessions about Jack and her life filled the lines, like the diary-style emails she’d admitted to writing. She wrote of her fears of falling for him, how much she loved making friends in Whichway, how she felt like she’d finally found a real home.

I love Jack, it said at the end of one message. I already love him so much it hurts. If I lose him, it will devastate me.

Emotion stung his eyes. She loved him. He fucking knew it. Their whole conversation had been a charade, but his relief was bittersweet. The realization didn’t explain her lies.

He reread the messages and pieced through what he’d learned:

She’d been crying and had sped to the estate.

Someone threatened those she loved.

She loved Jack.

Mention of something shiny worth stealing. Something legendary.

It clicked like the moment his lens breakthrough had struck, and the burn moved to his throat: she was protecting him…and someone was after the gold record.

His mind slammed back to that man in the arena—the tattooed creep eyeing her. That was when everything had changed. When Clementine had changed.

“Christ.” He pulled up the keypad and started dialing.

“Jack, you’re scaring me.”

God, he’d forgotten Imelda was here. He silenced her with a raised hand.