Page 90 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

The other end clicked through. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Call the sheriff and tell him there’s an emergency at the David Estate.”

“That’s it,” the operator barked. “This number has been traced. Charges will be laid.”

“Excuse me?” The phone bit into his clenched palm.

“Pranking the department comes with consequences, kid. The sheriff and his deputies are busy. Fourth strike and you’re out.”

Kid? Prank? He held the phone away, gaped at it, then shoved it back against his ear. “Listen here, lady. I don’t know who you are, but I’m Maxwell David the Third, and if you don’t send Sheriff Moray and his deputies to the David Estate, you’ll never work in this town again.”

He stabbed the End button and almost upended the office desk. Samuel Moray and his deputies were at the midway, the carnival always set up on the far side of town, in the opposite direction of the estate. He had no clue why the operator had given him lip, but help might not be on its way.

He dialed the estate next, but got a busy signal, which was odd. He tried his mother’s cell and the damn thing rang and rang, each passing second escalating his panic. Of course she wouldn’t answer. She wasn’t like Chloe, practically glued to her cell phone. He closed his eyes, tried to think. If they were in the nanny’s wing as expected, they should be safe. Only someone with intimate knowledge of their home would stumble upon that. But if his mother went to the kitchen or her room at the wrong time she could be in danger, and God knew what Clementine was doing, if she was placing herself in harm’s way.

He pushed the phone at Imelda harder than he should have. “Keep calling the last two numbers I dialed—for the estate and my mother. If someone picks up, tell them to stay in the nanny’s suite and lock the door.”

He snatched his keys from his briefcase and lunged for the door, but Imelda grabbed his arm. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Just know that Clementine adores you and your friendship.”

She bit her lip and nodded.

Two steps out the door, Alistair blocked his way. “Your set lost momentum. You’re practically giving me the win.”

He wasn’t wrong. His performance had nosedived toward the end. “Don’t care,” Jack said, maneuvering to the right.

Alistair mirrored the move. “You think you’re so much better than me, with all that money of yours, your fancy degrees. But which of us has Ava, huh? Which of us is gonna win top tribute artist? There are hundreds of hopefuls, but only one winner. Only one King.”

Jack clenched his fist, ready to deck the guy, but he needed to get to his car, get to the estate…and do what? Fight a criminal with his bare hands? He didn’t own a gun. He had less than zero combat skills. Sweat slicked his spine, his heart beating wildly as his mind whirred. Then it stalled. There are hundreds of hopefuls. Damn straight there were hundreds. Enough Elvi in this auditorium to fill five platoons. And they would be willing to fight for one thing.

The notion sinking in was ridiculous. Insane.

His options were limited.

He faced Alistair. “You still want that gold record?”

27

Clementine slammed her car into park. She fished her hidden knife from under her seat and flew out the door without bothering to close it. The estate was deathly still, no hint of Yevgen or anyone having broken in. She could be wrong about him being here. Yevgen could just be playing a game of cat and mouse to taunt her. Her chest still felt like it was holding in a scream.

Please be okay. Please be okay.

Jack’s family had to be okay.

She tried the front door first, but it was locked. If Yevgen was here, he must have snuck in another way. She scrambled around the grounds, to the bathroom window she’d used on her break-in. Her belly curdled. The fact that she’d done that was despicable, but Jack had forgiven her, the good man he was. A reminder she’d never deserved him. Just like his family didn’t deserve to be caught in Yevgen’s crosshairs.

The bathroom window was closed, but not locked, saving her from smashing the glass. She lifted it and checked for the scale she’d landed on last time before slipping in. Once inside, she wavered. No alarm had sounded. Sylvia had either ignored Clementine’s instruction or Yevgen was here and had cut the power, maybe the phone lines, too.

Working faster, she tucked her knife into the back of her jean shorts and ditched her sandals, opting for quieter bare feet. She dashed across the foyer and through the kitchen, heart racing faster as she neared Maxwell David’s room.

Please be okay.

The door was closed, but muffled grunts and curses had her panic rising. What had she done? Heart in her throat, she pulled the knife from its sheath, busted into the room, and the air whooshed from her lungs.

The nurse, Sylvia, and Maxwell stared at her, slack jawed. Even Colonel Blue gave her some serious side-eye. The TV was playing a Robert DeNiro movie she didn’t recognize, the source of the commotion. She almost sagged to the floor.

“Clementine, dear. Why do you have a knife?” Sylvia moved to stand.