“Around.” He shrugged. “You pick up things. You practice.”
Kat had been picking things up since her third birthday, when Hamish and Angus’s father took them all to the circus because he needed to “borrow” an elephant.
“You ever get caught?” she asked, and he shrugged again.
“Not by the police.”
“Do you have a record?” He shook his head. “Do you have a crew?” she asked.
“I work alone.”
Kat wondered whether or not the boy who had bumped into her on a Paris street was as good as she thought he might be. And whether or not he knew it.
She studied him, wondering if the missing piece of her plan might have strolled into her life. “Do you want to keep it that way?”
4 Days Until Deadline
Chapter 23
Of all the things that should have fallen within Katarina Bishop’s comfort zone, sneaking into a mansion (especially this particular mansion) at three o’clock in the morning should have been incredibly high on the list. After all, she knew the pros and cons of the security system (because she’d been the one to recommend it). She was familiar with the house and was well aware of the fact that the patio doors were painted shut and the rosebushes beneath the dining room windows were equipped with a particularly nasty supply of thorns.
But that night, walking through the front door of the Hale estate felt a lot like walking back into Uncle Eddie’s kitchen— like she’d left without permission, and she might never really belong inside again.
So she tried to cling to the shadows. She wanted everyone to be asleep.
“Kat?”
She froze and cursed the creaky floors.
“Kat, is that you?” Gabrielle’s voice was high and scratchy. Despite the darkness, Kat could easily make out her cousin sitting at the top of the stairs. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy mess on the top of her head.
“What is it?” Kat asked. “What’s wrong? Is it Taccone? Did he—”
“It’s your dad, Kat. He was arrested.”
A light turned on in one of the rooms upstairs, and Kat heard voices approaching.
She looked at Gabrielle, praying she would understand. “I know.”
“You did what?”
Kat wasn’t sure who said it first, because it seemed like her entire crew had blurted the question at the exact same time. She wasn’t even sure where to look, because every eye in the billiards room was staring at her with such heat and scrutiny, it was like squinting at the sun.
“I made an executive decision,” Kat told them.
“So you went to the police?” Simon said as if he’d plugged that piece of intelligence into his monster mind and the data didn’t quite compute.
“Interpol, actually.” Kat managed a casual shrug. “Technically, I went to Interpol.”
“And you ratted on your dad?” Angus asked.
“He’s better off where he is. Trust me,” she said.
“But you’re his daughter, Kat.” Hamish’s eyes were wide. “Uncle Eddie’s gonna kill you.”
“I’m also the girl who’s trying to undo the only Pseudonima job ever done in our lifetime, Hamish. Not even Uncle Eddie can kill me twice.”
Simon dropped to the couch. “I don’t think I’d do well in prison.”
Kat tried not to notice the way Hamish and Angus gripped their pool cues, or the way Gabrielle sat quietly beside the window, a worried expression on her face.
“Guys, I—”
“She did the right thing.” They were the words she never expected to hear, from the one person she never expected to say them. Hale dropped onto an ottoman. “If this doesn’t work, and”—he almost smiled—“it’d kinda be a miracle for it to work . . . then your dad’s gonna need as much standing between him and Arturo Taccone as possible.”
He looked at Kat. Something stretched out between them in that moment, and she knew that no one would deny Hale— or doubt him. That no one would fight them both. And so maybe they could have left it at that. Maybe the tension would have blown over if an unfamiliar boy hadn’t chosen that moment to appear in the doorway and say, “Hello.”
Simon lunged for a laptop that sat open on the wet bar and shut it with a snap. Hamish threw a coat over the model of the Henley that lay on the floor beside the couch, but Hale didn’t make a single move. He just looked at the boy in the doorway and back at Kat.
“Who’s this guy?” he asked, jerking his head toward the boy extending his hand.
“Hi, I’m Nick. Kat told me—”
“To wait outside,” Kat warned.
“So?” Hale asked, still staring at Kat.
“Nick’s a pocket man. He and I . . . bumped into each other in Paris.” Kat wanted to sound sure and in control—like someone who deserved to be there. “Nick, this is Gabrielle.” Her cousin gave the faintest hint of a wave with two fingers. “The Bagshaws, Angus and Hamish. Simon—I told you about him. And this is Hale,” Kat finished. “Hale’s—”
“Hale’s wondering exactly what Nick’s doing here.”
Kat listened for the familiar teasing in Hale’s voice, but she knew he wasn’t even the tiniest bit amused.
“You said it yourself, Hale.” Kat lowered her voice. “We need one more.”
“Two more,” Hale corrected. “Actually, I said we needed two more, and he—”
“He’s in,” Kat said flatly. “We can do it with seven. And he’s in.”
Kat looked at her crew: Angus was the oldest, Simon was the smartest, Gabrielle was the quickest, and Hamish was the strongest. But Hale was the only one willing to say what everyone else was thinking.
“I knew it,” he said, turning away. “I knew I should have gone with you. First you tell some phony story about your dad to the police—”
“Interpol,” Hamish, Angus, and Simon all corrected.
“And then you come home with this?” Hale snapped, pointing at Nick as if the boy couldn’t hear. As if Kat were an amateur. A fool.
Kat shook her head, wishing she could say for certain that he was wrong.
“Can I see you outside for a second?” Kat glared at Hale, then walked to the patio doors and out onto the veranda.
As Hale closed the door behind him, Kat heard Angus say, “Ooh, Mom and Dad are going to fight now.”
Outside, the air was cool. She wished she’d brought a coat, that Hale would put his arm around her and tease her for bringing home strays and lost causes. But his tone was anything but warm. “You’re too close to this one, Kat. You’re way too involved to think—”
“I know,” she practically yelled. “I am close. This is my life, Hale. Mine. My father. My job. My responsibility.”
“Clearly.” He sounded so calm and detached. Everything she wasn’t.
“I know what I’m doing, Hale.”
“Really? Because I could swear that in the past twenty-four hours you’ve turned your father in—”
“Five minutes ago you thought that was a great idea,” she reminded him. He pushed on.
“—to the cops, and brought home a stranger.”
“Nick’s good, Hale. He picked me clean and I never saw it coming.”
Hale shook his head. “This is a bad call, Kat. If Uncle Eddie were here—”
“Uncle Eddie’s not here,” she snapped. “Uncle Eddie isn’t going to be here.” Her voice cracked, but Hale either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
“Uncle Eddie would stop you.”
Kat looked at him, read the cool indifference in his eyes. “So that’s what you’re going to do?” she asked. “Stop me?”
She wanted him to say, “Of course not,” but instead, he looked her right in the eye and said, “Maybe I should.” He stepped closer. “This guy is—”
“What, Hale?” Kat shouted, louder now. “What is he exactly?”
“He’s not part of the family.”
“Yeah, well—” Kat sighed. “Neither are you.”
Katarina Bishop was a criminal. But she’d never held a gun. She’d never thrown a punch. Until that moment she didn’t really know how it felt to hurt someone, and as soon as she saw the look on Hale’s face, she wanted to take the words back.
And she wished she could make them hurt more.
Both. So she went inside, unable to do either.
Chapter 24
Gregory Reginald Wainwright was still relatively new to the Henley. Oh, nine months had been more than enough time for his personal effects to find their way out of boxes and onto shelves. In that time, he’d managed to learn the names of almost all of the guards and docents who worked between the hours of ten and six. But the honeymoon period, as they say, was almost over for the Henley’s new director. It would not be long until the board of directors started asking to see his quarterly reports, questioning him about donation levels, budget overages, and, of course, about the man named Visily Romani.
These were the worries that filled his mind, pulling his concentration away from his newspaper that Friday morning. Perhaps that was why he didn’t mind the distraction when the intercom on his desk began to buzz.
“Mr. Wainwright,” his assistant said, “there’s a young man here who would like a few moments of your time.”
He groaned. The Henley was always filled with young men. Young women, too. Which was nothing more than a polite way of saying children. They spilled soft drinks in the café and left fingerprints on the glass in the atrium. They filled his museum by the busload every day of the school year, crowding the exhibits, talking too loudly, and driving the Henley’s director to the sanctuary of his office with his tea and his paper.
“Mr. Wainwright?” The assistant’s voice seemed more urgent now. “Shall I show the young man in? He doesn’t have an appointment, but he was hoping you might take a moment for him.”
Gregory Wainwright was searching for an answer—an excuse—but before he could claim to be expecting an urgent visitor or about to make an important call, his secretary added, “His name is W. W. Hale the Fifth.”
“Is he good?” Nick’s breath was warm against Kat’s ear. They were standing too close, she thought, as they looked through the halls of the Henley toward an unmarked door where two corridors came to a T-shaped intersection. Someone will notice, Kat worried. Someone might think something. And still he stood behind her, watching, as the door to the director’s private office opened, and a slightly balding, slightly paunchy, slightly awkward man emerged with a boy who was his opposite in almost every way.
Kat watched Hale make a show of holding the door open for the older man to walk through. She doubted that anyone but a seasoned professional would notice the small piece of tape he’d left on the latch, the quick glance he’d sent in her direction.
And then she exhaled and said, “Yeah. He’s good.” But what she thought was, He’s still angry.