I broke into Josh’s house four days later.
Okay, break in might be too strong a phrase, since I knew where he kept his spare key, but he didn’t know I was entering his house while he was at work. Plus, I had to make it look like a break-in.
After a week of tossing, turning and agonizing, I finally had a plan. Not a great one, since it depended on luck and someone I barely knew to help me, but I’d cross those bridges when I got there.
First, I had to steal the painting and get Max off my back before his deadline. Then, I could work on removing the hold he had on me, AKA get rid of the sex tape.
My pulse drummed in my ears as I sifted through the potted plant on Josh’s porch. He had a night shift and wouldn’t be home until morning, but that didn’t stop me from freezing every time a twig snapped or a car passed.
After several minutes of searching in the dark—I didn’t want to alert his neighbors by turning on my phone’s flashlight—I spotted the pale silver gleam of his spare key. I loosely repotted the soil before I unlocked the front door and slipped into the silent house.
It was more menacing in the absence of Josh’s warmth. Every shadow was a hiding place for monsters, each creak a gunshot that flayed my already shredded nerves.
Sweat stuck my knit cap against my forehead as I walked through the living room and into his bedroom. Luckily, his room wasn’t The Louvre and the painting wasn’t the Mona Lisa. All I had to do was unhook the art from its peg and slide it into my oversize portfolio bag.
No wailing alarms, no security bursting through the door with their guns drawn.
It was so easy it was almost sickening.
When someone trusted you, you didn’t have to work that hard to slip past their defenses.
Guilt swirled in my chest as I searched Josh’s room for other items to pilfer. It would be too suspicious if I stole only the painting.
I couldn’t bring myself to take his laptop, but I snatched one of his spare watches, the small wad of emergency cash he stashed in the back of his sock drawer, and his iPad. I’d keep them safe until I returned them after my plan, hopefully, worked.
I was in the process of messing up his room and opening all the drawers when my phone buzzed with a new text.
I banged my hip against the sharp edge of the dresser in surprise. “Shit.”
I should’ve silenced my phone. It was a sloppy, amateur mistake, and I silently cursed myself as I opened the message.
Stella: Kangaroo or koala?
It was the code question we used to make sure the other was okay. We were the only ones who knew the nonsensical answer, so no one could pretend to be us over text in case we were kidnapped or something.
I typed out a quick reply.
Jules: Pink Starburst.
Stella and I always informed each other if we were staying out later than usual. Screw waiting until your roommate was missing for twenty-four hours before raising the alarm; if someone fucked with one of us, the other would know almost immediately.
I just hadn’t expected Stella to be home so early. She told me she had a work event, and those usually ran until midnight.
Stella: 🙂 Hot date?
Stella: One of these days, you’ll tell me who Mystery Guy is
She knew I was dating someone; she just didn’t know who.
I stared at her texts for a second before I shoved my phone back into my pocket. I didn’t have time to get into a conversation about Josh. If I didn’t pull off my plan, there wouldn’t be anything to tell, because we would be over.
Familiar nausea twisted my stomach.
“Stop it,” I whispered. “The plan will work.”
The plan will work. The plan will work.
I chanted the silent mantra as I finished setting up the fake-but-not-really-fake burglary. I left the front door unlocked, replanted the spare key in the pot, and hoped like hell real burglars wouldn’t show up before Josh came home.
Since he lived near Thayer, his neighborhood was eerily quiet during the summer. No raucous house parties, no chatter from students heading to and from one of the campus bars, no one to stop me as I strolled down the street with my loot.
The logical part of me knew there was nothing overtly suspicious about a woman walking around at night with a portfolio bag. The paranoid part of me was convinced the bag served as a neon sign announcing to the world what a terrible person I was.
Liar! Thief! Do not trust her! it screamed.
Great. Now I was hearing voices from inanimate objects.
I tightened my hold on my bag and quickened my pace until I reached the metro station, where I pulled out my phone again to update Max.
Me: I have it.
Me: I’ll drop it off now.
I didn’t want to hold onto the painting any longer than I had to.
Max: It’s almost eleven at night. Where’s your sense of propriety?
Max: Unless, of course, you’d like to give me something else…
I gagged at the suggestion. I was already grossed out by the fact I used to have sex with him. I would rather set myself on fire than let him touch me again.
Me: Give me an address, Max.
Me: Or I’m throwing the painting in the Potomac.
Obviously, I wouldn’t, but I’d take any chance to fuck with him.
Max: You’re no fun anymore, J.
Despite his complaint, he followed up with an address. A quick Google search told me it was a hotel near NoMa.
He considered me such a negligible threat he didn’t bother to hide where he was staying. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or offended.
When I arrived at the hotel, the receptionist didn’t spare me a glance as I walked through the lobby and took the elevator up to the ninth floor.
I wasn’t surprised by the lack of security. The place wasn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton. Sections of wallpaper curled away from the plaster in yellowing stripes, the carpet was so thin I could feel the wooden floors beneath, and the hall stank of cigarette smoke.
My steps faltered outside Max’s room. Meeting him in the middle of the night in some sketchy hotel wasn’t the smartest idea. He’d always disdained physical violence and deemed it a “lower” form of manipulation, but it’d been seven years. A person could change a lot in seven years, especially if they’d spent most of it in prison.
Right as I was about to leave and text him an excuse for why I couldn’t make it tonight after all, his door opened.
“Jules.” Max smiled, looking freakishly normal in a white cotton T-shirt and jeans. “I thought that was you.” He rapped his knuckles against the wall. “Thin walls. I heard your footsteps from a mile away.”
“Congratulations.” I shoved the portfolio bag at him. I’d stored the rest of Josh’s items in a separate purse, which I kept tucked inside my jacket. “Here’s your stupid painting.”
“Right here in the hall?” He clucked his tongue. “No manners. What if someone sees us?”
“I’m pretty sure we could do a drug deal in the lobby and no one would blink an eye.”
“There are benefits to staying in a hotel such as this one.” Nevertheless, Max stepped back into his room, out of the line of sight of anyone walking down the hall, before he pulled out the painting. He examined it with a small grimace. “This is truly hideous.”
“Then give it back.” It was worth a try.
Max chuckled. “Glad to see you’ve kept your sense of humor. No.” He tucked the art back into the bag. “This baby is worth a lot of money.”
“Fine. Now you have it,” I said curtly. “I assume you’ll be leaving soon.”
I held my breath while he stared at me, hoping he’d take the bait and tell me when he planned to leave. I needed to know how much time I had to implement the second part of my plan.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair by this weekend,” he drawled. “Which isn’t to say I won’t contact you again in the future if I miss you. We had such fun times together.”
I bit back a scathing retort. The longer I stayed, the more likely I’d slip up. Besides, I didn’t want to give Max the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
I turned on my heel and stalked to the elevator without replying. I made it back to the metro without incident, and relief cooled my veins as the train whooshed through the tunnel toward Logan Circle.
Phase one, complete.
It was too late to initiate phase two, so I went straight to my room when I returned home. Thankfully, Stella was already asleep, so I didn’t have to answer any questions about where I’d been.
I stripped off my clothes and jumped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the sticky film of guilt on my skin.
It was past midnight. Max had the painting, and Josh would be home in less than seven hours.
There was no going back.
Thick, steamy air clogged my nostrils with each shallow breath when I pictured Josh’s reaction to the “break-in.”
No. It’s fine. I’m going to return the items, including the painting.
Maybe. Hopefully.
My mind raced as I ran through my scripts tomorrow, both for Josh when he inevitably tells me about the burglary and for the person whose help I needed.
My plan was simple, but it hinged half on reality and half on hope.
It would work, though. It had to work.
There was no other option.
