by Rio Youers
“Holy shit. Really?”
“My mom was from good stock, Brody.” Blair finished her drink, looking away from him, and for just a second he saw the hurt in her eyes. “The idea was that I’d wear them on my wedding day, so that some small part of Mom would be with me.” Blair blinked, scuffed the back of one hand across her cheek. “And then my daughter, or daughter-in-law, would wear them on her wedding day, and so on . . .”
Brody nodded. His old man didn’t have any money, and didn’t leave them much beyond a closet full of faded clothes, a vinyl collection from the 1980s, and a five-year-old Chevy Malibu with monthly payments they couldn’t meet. Brody sold what he could and took the rest to Goodwill. He kept one thing, though: a leather biker jacket that his dad had bought as a teenager, fully intending to one day buy the motorcycle to go with it—a Harley, of course—and ride from New York City to Los Angeles. Sadly, this life goal was never accomplished, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be reinvented. Sorting through his old man’s things, Brody found the jacket, hung it in his own closet, and had fostered ever since the fantasy that he might one day zip himself into it, and make the cross-country journey for them both.
He understood, as well as anybody, that people can survive in the things they leave behind.
“I took off after Mom died,” Blair said. “I couldn’t handle that shit. I went to Europe, India, Thailand. I was gone for eleven months, and when I returned to America, Dad and Meredith were married. And do you know what Daddy’s gift to Meredith was?”
“Mommy’s diamonds,” Brody said.
“Ding-ding-ding. We have a winner.”
“I’ve got to admit.” Brody looked at her with some sympathy. “That’s an asshole move.”
“You’re damn right it’s an asshole move.”
“And, what . . . you want me to break into your parents’ house, steal the diamonds for you?”
“Ding-ding-ding.” Blair beamed. Her smile was off slightly—a few crooked teeth—but brilliant, nonetheless. “Shit, Brody, maybe you did bring your A-game.”
“Maybe. And it’s telling me to stay the hell away from this.”
“Why?”
“Listen, I dig your bouncy rebel vibe, I really do, and I even feel a shred of sympathy for you.” Brody held his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “But don’t you think, when the diamonds go missing, that you’re going to be prime suspect numero uno?”
“No, because I’m going to be with my dad when you steal them.” Blair was still beaming. “The perfect alibi.”
“But you won’t be able to wear the diamonds. Or flaunt them. Or whatever the fuck else you do with diamonds. So what’s the point?”
“The point, Brody, is that they’ll be in the possession of their rightful owner. It’s a matter of principle.” Blair pushed her empty glass to one side, propped her elbows on the table, and leaned closer. “And no, I won’t be able to wear them, but I’ve rented a safe-deposit box at a bank in Freewood Valley. That’s where they’ll stay, at least for the foreseeable future. And then, when God finally answers my prayers and strikes Meredith dead, I’ll wear them to her fucking funeral.”
Brody fetched an exhausted sigh. In lieu of sleep, he bought another beer. He bought Blair a drink, too, the same eight-dollar cocktail. Macy served him without comment. The old drunk mumbled along to Springsteen.
“Thanks.” Blair nodded at the drink.
“Sure.”
A strange silence seeped between them as they tended to their drinks—strange in that it was comfortable. Despite Blair’s brash, brattish exterior, Brody had warmed to her. Just a little.
“This is not an impulsive thing, Brody. You should know I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” She licked her lips and shrugged. Her eyes, Brody noticed, were subtly different colors: brown and a lighter brown. “I thought about hiring someone. An ex-con, you know? But shit, I don’t know anybody like that. I’m just a spoiled girl from the Valley. And then, when I bumped into you and your wallet dropped at my feet . . . well, I guess I saw that as a sign.”
“Right.” Brody glugged his beer, wiped his mouth, nodded. “I can see that, I guess. But, Blair, I’m not a thief. I know what I did, and I know what I’m capable of. And trust me, you need a professional, someone with lockpicks and wire cutters and . . . Jesus, whatever else thieves use. I’m just a jerkoff with a fake gun. I will fuck this up.”
“Next Thursday. October third. One of my dad’s business interests is throwing him a big, swanky party at the country club.” Blair raised her penciled eyebrows. “I’ll be there with my dad and Meredith. Our house will be empty.”
“And I’m guessing that empty house will be rigged with a high-end alarm system and light sensors. Maybe a guard dog.”
“No dog,” Blair said. “Light sensors in front only. And yeah, there’s an alarm system, which will be activated if you go through any doors or break any glass. Sunrise Security will be on the scene within five minutes.” Her cheeks pulsed as she sucked on her straw. “But I’ve planned this out, Brody. Every detail. You’re going to ghost in, then ghost out again. Invisible. You won’t even need your ski mask.”
“Good,” Brody said. “Because I’ve already dumped it.”
“My bedroom window will be unlatched,” Blair said. “It’s on the south side of the property. Second window from the right. You can access it by climbing onto the pool house. It’s an easy climb. I’ve done it myself, like, a thousand times.”
“Sneaking in from all-night parties?”
“You know it.” She grinned and touched his hand again. “Bad girl, right?”
“I guess.” He lowered his eyes.
“Okay, so once you’re in my room—and oh, excuse the mess, by the way, it’s just, ugh, like, you know . . .” She threw her hands up, exasperated, as if troublesome pixies snuck into her room while she wasn’t there and threw her shit all over. “Anyway, go straight through and on to the landing. My dad and Meredith’s room is to the right, the double doors at the top of the stairs. Oh, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to wear gloves, so you don’t leave any paw prints on the door handles.”
“I may not be a thief,” Brody said, “but I’m not an idiot, either.”
“You dropped your wallet at the scene of a crime, so . . .”
Brody rolled his eyes and gestured for her to continue.
“Their room is hyoooooge. Two walk-in closets, his-and-her bathrooms, a bed the size of Alaska. I’m not kidding, Bro, they’d need GPS to find each other and fuck.”
“Wow, so . . . elegant. So refined.”
“Always.” Blair smiled and lifted her chin. Her sheaf of purple hair swished. “Okay, the important part: Meredith keeps her jewelry in her dresser. It’s the one against the far wall, between the two picture windows. It has three mirrors and a stool in front with a gold cushion. There are hair-spray cans and makeup boxes and a few other things on top. I suggest throwing all that crap on the floor, emptying the drawers—”
“You want it to look like a robbery,” Brody said. “Like the thief was after anything of value, not just your mom’s diamonds.”
“Exactly.” Blair snapped her fingers. “I knew you were the right man for the job.”
Brody slurped his beer and shrugged.
“The diamonds are in the top middle drawer on the right-hand side.” Blair said, just above a whisper. “That drawer will be locked, but you can jimmy it easily with a flathead screwdriver. Now, I’ve served this on a platter for you, Brody—given you a blueprint for success. But you’re going to have to bring your own screwdriver.”
An imperceptible nod, but he hadn’t agreed to anything. Not yet.
“The diamonds are in a black case with the Harry Winston logo on it. That’s an uppercase H above an uppercase W. Leave the case, but grab the pendant and earrings. It’ll look like you weren’t after that case, specifically. You feel me?”
“I feel you.”
“I’m stating the obviou
s here, but don’t just take the diamonds. That would look suspicious—like, you know, I’d hired someone to steal them.”
“Or blackmailed someone.”
Blair’s face, already cartoon-bright, lit from within. She smiled and everything shone. “Damn, I like you, Brody. You’re so cute. Maybe, after all this, we can get together and paint the town a wicked shade of red.”
Don’t count on it, Brody wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. Blair was heedless and loud and utterly refreshing. He thought going on a date with her would be like swimming with a stingray or BASE jumping from El Capitan, but it might be just the kick in the ass his dismal life needed. So he shrugged and lifted one eyebrow.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Take whatever else you want,” Blair continued. She took a long pull on her straw and a third of the drink disappeared. “Meredith has a lot of jewelry. Too much, that goddamn pig. Do whatever you want with it. Pawn it, give it to your sister, I don’t give a fuck. All I care about are my mom’s diamonds.”
Brody tried to resist, but couldn’t keep from indulging in a brief fantasy: hitting up several pawnshops across the state, racking up the stacks, then checking in to a safe, clean hotel (not the Motel 15, with its invariable assemblage of crackheads and whores) and staying there until he’d turned things around. If everything worked out, he and Molly could be in their new apartment—in Cauley, of course, maybe overlooking the river—by Christmas.
Brody pursed his lips. He knew it was foolhardy to give this fantasy even brief life. But if—just if—Blair’s plan went as smoothly as she said it would . . . well, things could really work out.
“Bring me the diamonds,” Blair said now, rattling her pink fingernails against her glass, “and you’ll get your wallet back. If you don’t bring me the diamonds—shit, if you can’t do this for me, Brody, then I’m going to the police. And don’t think for one second that I won’t do it, because I will.”
Of this, Brody had no doubt. He finished his beer and said, “I guess you really do have me where you want me.”
Blair made a pistol out of her right hand. She aimed at Brody, pulled the trigger.
“This is crazy shit,” Brody said. He ran his hands through his hair. His scalp was slick with sweat. “My dad always told me that two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“But maybe two wrongs can keep your ass out of jail.” Blair drained her glass of everything but the ice cubes. “I’ve made this very simple for you. Do exactly what I say, and it can’t fail.”
“I guess you’ve never heard of Murphy’s Law.”
“‘Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.’ Yeah, I’ve heard of it. And it’s pessimistic bullshit.”
“You’re talking to a guy who dropped his wallet the one fucking time he robbed a convenience store, whose mom ran out on him when he was twelve years old, whose dad decided to swan-dive off a fourteen-story office building. Trust me, Blair, I’m very used to things going wrong.” He took a deep breath and looked at her squarely. “Jesus Christ, I should change my last name to Murphy.”
“Yeah. So sad. Did I mention the ten-year minimum sentence?”
“Would you cut me some slack?”
“I’m cutting you a deal, Brody. That’s how things get done.” Blair counted off the pros on her fingers. “You get your freedom, my dad gets a sizable insurance payout, and I get my mom’s diamonds. Everybody comes out on top.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So what do you say?”
Brody slumped in his seat. So many thoughts ricocheted around his mind. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and sighed.
“This is a no-brainer, Brody, but I can see you’re tired—probably not thinking straight—so here’s what I’m going to do.” She tipped a wink and flashed her smile again. “I’m going to let you sleep on it. That’s the kind of girl I am. But I will call you tomorrow morning, bright and breezy. And if you don’t pick up the phone, or if you do but don’t tell me what I want to hear . . .”
She made a siren sound—“Weeoooow-weeoooow”—and used her forearm to mimic a cell door slamming. “Bam! Don’t drop the soap, brother.”
“There must be another way,” Brody muttered. “I’ll wash your car for a year . . . I’ll clean your goddamn room—”
“I’ve told you what I want.” Blair got to her feet, standing all of five-five in her designer boots, but appearing so much taller. She leaned over and dropped a moist kiss on his cheek, very close to his lips. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were cute.”
Brody squeaked something in reply, then she was gone, bounding exuberantly from the bar, leaving nothing behind but the print of her lipstick on his face.
* * *
He’d made his mind up before the door had even closed behind her, and became certain of his decision on the long walk home—to the point where he nearly pulled up her number on his phone and called her back. He didn’t, though, because he was tired, and she was something else, and he wanted a clear head the next time he spoke to her.
Molly had fallen asleep in the armchair, her crutches resting against the cluttered coffee table, within reach. Brody sat on the arm beside her, brushing strands of light brown hair—the same color as his—from her brow. He recalled that memory from so long ago, its power refusing to fade over time: of standing resolutely beside her hospital bed, his hand joined to hers, promising to be there if she ever needed someone to lean on.
Brody lost himself to sleep soon after and dreamed brightly.
* * *
His phone rang a little before nine a.m. He was already awake, propped against his pillows, waiting.
“Did you dream about me?”
“I don’t dream.”
“Everybody dreams, Brody.”
He smiled—yes, this was true—and listened to her breathing over the line, the near-silence of anticipation.
“So?”
He imagined her in her messy room, cross-legged on the bed, colorless without makeup but vibrant within, maybe dressed in Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas and chewing her lower lip.
“So,” he said.
“You going to do this?”
“Yeah.”
“The right decision.”
“We’ll see.”
He heard Tyrese singing in the shower, the neighbors quarreling, Molly’s crutches thonking across the kitchen linoleum. These were delightfully normal, unexciting sounds, and Brody thought in that moment that he could listen to them forever.
Blair said, breaking the ordinariness, “I live at 1186 Windsor Grove. That’s in Freewood Valley. The Laurels. You know it?”
“I know it.”
“Okay.” Blair took a deep breath. “I’m going to run through the plan one more time. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Good.”
Chapter Four
Brody had been to the Laurels only once in his life. His father had driven him and Molly through it shortly after their mom took to her heels. “A possible future,” he’d said, rolling their old car past multimillion-dollar homes set back from the roads (private roads, not a crack or pothole to be found), pointing out the multiple-car garages and lustrous lawns, the security gates at the ends of long driveways, the fountains and sculptures. “You can live in a place like this if you work hard, if you go to college and give it everything you’ve got.” From the get-go, he took his single-parent responsibilities seriously. Indeed, the only big fight he and Brody had—it nearly came to blows—was when Brody dropped out of high school to get a job, help out with the bills. “You can kiss your house in the Laurels goodbye,” his dad had stated resignedly, and there were tears in his eyes.
Brody didn’t think he’d ever return to the Laurels, but his life’s script had been flipped again.
He was back, not to buy a house, but to steal from one.
* * *
He parked half a mile from Blair’s house and walked across Poplar Common—just a regular dude out
for an evening stroll. The car being so far away didn’t bother him; if this went the way Blair insisted it would, he wouldn’t need to make a quick getaway.
Windsor Grove bordered the common on its northwest side. Blair told him that the simplest way onto her property—to avoid being seen or triggering the light sensors—was to cut through the dense woodland that ran between the common and her backyard (although “yard” was an extremely modest term for an area of real estate that could host the next Panthers game). “Those woods are thick,” Blair had warned him. “I suggest you navigate them early evening, while there’s still some light in the sky, then hang loose until it gets dark. We’ll be out of the house at seven, and home by nine-thirty. That gives you plenty of time.”
Brody crept into the woods a full hour before sunset. He twisted through an acre of crowded trees and blackened brush, and soon arrived at the perimeter of Blair’s backyard. An eight-foot chain-link fence stood in front of him, but didn’t present a problem. Chain-link fences were designed to be climbed, with their numerous little rungs and handholds, and the house was so distantly removed from its neighbors that no one would see him do so.
Hopefully.
He remained between the trees and scanned the back of the property. The light was dropping fast, but he saw the soft, greenish shimmer of the swimming pool and pool house beyond. Just like Blair said, its position offered easy access to her room—the second window from the right. He nodded. Her intel had, so far at least, been accurate.
Yeah, that’s great, a voice in his mind spoke up—the same voice that had advised him to back down at Buddy’s Convenience Store. But you’re not even on the property yet. Anything can go wrong.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Brody whispered.
She’s a loose cannon. You can’t trust her.
“I have no choice.”
He checked his phone, shielding the light with his hand just in case someone caught a flicker of it from the house. 6:29. He retreated a few feet, found a dark space between the trees, and waited.
He scaled the fence at 8:10.
* * *
