by Dawn Ius
“Nah. That mask in the games room? That’s from a super B-grade horror flick from the seventies. I don’t even know why I remember it,” Chelsea says.
I pull out my phone and Google search the movie, scrolling through the pictures of the actors. I point to an image that looks somewhat familiar. “This actress . . . she was in that knight movie with what’s his name? Hugo? Harry.”
“Henry!” Nick says. “I think it was called White Knight Tale.”
Chelsea makes a face. “That’s the most ludicrous title I’ve ever heard.”
“Holy shit.” Mat turns his screen around so we can all see. “Check this out. According to IMDb, the actress who played alongside that guy is Eloise. Eloise Montgomery.”
My stomach clenches as I recognize her picture from the living room. “Roger’s wife?”
Mat calls up a search engine and types in her name. Her IMDb listing credits her with more than a dozen obscure films. He scrolls through a series of articles written about her until we’re all sure Eloise is Roger’s wife.
Nick leans over Mat’s shoulder, reading. “Check out her bio. The Trophy Case was hers. She loved muscle cars.”
I pull out my cell phone and type her name into Google. The first item is an article about her death. I zoom in on the picture of the car, a blue and white Chevelle similar to the one in Roger’s driveway, except the one on my screen is totaled. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “She died in a car crash.”
“That’s terrible.” Chelsea peers over my shoulder. “What else does the article say about her?”
I skim the text until I land on a paragraph that sticks out like a flashing burlesque sign. My mouth dries to desert sand. “You guys . . .” A sick sensation creeps across my skin. “Eloise Montgomery was supposed to be the next Bond girl.”
Nick’s eyes go big. “As in James . . . Bond?”
I nod. “It was her dream role, but she died before they started filming.”
Mat whistles low. “It makes sense . . . why he wanted the car.”
“She never had the chance to act in her dream role,” I whisper. “Giving her the Bond car was probably Roger’s way of honoring her.”
Chelsea presses her hand to her chest. “That’s so sad.”
I blink to stop the tears from coming, thinking of the few times Roger talked about Eloise. The way he sometimes looks at Nick and me together, as if remembering his own love that was cut too short. He wasn’t over losing her–not without finishing the Trophy Case. Maybe not even then.
“Check the date she died,” Mat says.
I know the answer before he reads it out loud. Eloise Montgomery, aspiring actress, Roger’s beloved wife, was killed five years ago, one week from today, which would have been their twenty-fifth–silver–wedding anniversary.
The same day as our deadline.
My emotion squeaks out in a strangled cry. “I need to talk to him.”
Nick grabs my wrist. “And tell him what? That we know about Eleanor? About Eloise? How will that help us get Emma back?”
“He cares for her,” I say, desperate to believe that, amid all the lies, I can trust in that truth. “Maybe if we tell him everything, he’ll let us have the Shelby, or one of them in the Trophy Case–at least to get Emma back.”
There would be other consequences, but we can deal with them.
Mat’s eyes gloss over. “I don’t doubt he loves Emma, Jules. But how can we trust him? Not after he kept Eleanor a secret. What else is he hiding?”
“We need to get our hands on a Shelby,” Nick says. “And if we can’t get into the Trophy Case, then we need to find Eleanor.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” Chelsea says. “The information about that car could be anywhere.”
“There has to be a reason the garage is off-limits,” I say. “Maybe among those props and other memorabilia, we’ll find a clue?”
“Good thinking,” Chelsea says.
I sure hope so. Because it’s not my life that depends on it–it may be our only shot at saving Emma.
• • •
“It’s daylight,” Chelsea whispers. “Shouldn’t we wait until night?”
No time. So far we’ve managed to hide Emma’s disappearance with a tall tale about her sleeping over at Melissa’s house for a couple of days. Roger made it clear it’s an unsanctioned move, but when we reminded him that it gives us the freedom to boost the last cars on his list, he let it drop and retreated to his sitting room with a tumbler of whiskey and a new hot rod magazine. Now I just pray he won’t call Melissa’s mom. Somehow he doesn’t strike me as the type.
“Maybe we should just tell Roger,” Chelsea says.
“Nick’s right. I can’t trust him anymore.”
She puts her hand on my arm. “My dad . . . he’s connected. I could call him.”
Fresh tears spring to my eyes. The significance of the offer carves into my heart, the lengths she’d go to for me–for my sister. I pull her into a hug and squeeze so hard I’m afraid she might snap in half. “That means . . . everything.”
“This whole thing has made me realize . . .” She blinks away a tear. “I really took my parents for granted.”
“You should call them. Their life’s probably been boring since you left.”
Chelsea laughs. “Dad’s a politician, what could possibly be more boring than that?” She exhales and I’m shocked by the sense of peace that falls across her face. “I’m not really a foster kid, you know.”
My lip curls into a half smile. “I’m shocked.”
She ducks her head a little. “Roger didn’t press charges when I broke into his warehouse because of who my dad is. When I screwed up, Roger offered to take me in, some hush-hush deal between high-powered aquaintances.”
The idea makes my stomach roil, the thought that Chelsea’s dad would so easily give her up.
“Senator Lynch is one of Roger’s charities,” Chelsea says. “Political stuff. You know?”
I don’t, but I understand that’s not the real issue here. Chelsea misses her family, even if she’s not ready to admit it.
“When this is over . . . ,” she says.
I squeeze her arm. “They’ll be thrilled to have you home.”
“Aw.” Mat’s voice pings through my earpiece. “You two need more time, or are we doing this?”
I clear my throat. “Stop eavesdropping, you creeper.”
He can’t risk cutting the security cameras, so he’s shifted the lens enough so we can access the garage door. But if things go as planned, Roger won’t even know we’ve been here.
Chelsea glances over her shoulder. “What if one of the staff sees us?”
Definite possibility. “That’s why we need to be quick.”
Seconds later, we’re in.
I head straight to the boxes of memorabilia and start rooting through them. Nothing. Chelsea takes the posters off the wall and checks behind the frames. She comes up blank.
My shoulders sag. “Fuck, Chelsea, I thought for sure we’d find something here.”
“He’s too smart to be that obvious.”
I look around the garage. “There’s nothing else in here, right?”
Chelsea reassembles the pictures and starts to hang them on the wall, concentrating hard to keep the order the same. “His file cabinet. But I already went through that.”
I switch two of the posters back to their original placement. “No raised flags?”
She shakes her head. “Info on each of us, some property deeds, blah blah.” Her eyes widen. “Wait. I did see a set of blueprints for the Trophy Case before I knew what they were.”
I think of the secret room he built for my small ballet studio. Could he have done the same for Eleanor? “Do your thing.”
Chelsea crosses to the other side of the garage. “Damn, he’s good.” She digs around in her pockets for the right tool and unlocks the file cabinet. After a quick flip through the files, she pulls out a rolled-up piece of paper.
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I spread it across the top of the cabinet.
The plans are hardly detailed, with only the key rooms identified. I’m no engineer, but it doesn’t look to me like the Trophy Case even has a basement level, let alone a secret room. “Damn it. Anything else in there?”
“Empty.”
Is it possible we’re wrong? That Roger doesn’t have Eleanor at all?
No. Mat tracked the VIN number.
But if not in the warehouse with the other three Shelbys–
Three.
Identical except for color.
Switch the paint and–
My heart starts picking up speed. I hold on to Chelsea for balance. “This is going to sound crazy, but I think Eleanor is at the warehouse. She’s been hiding in plain sight.”
30
The List
Jack–1970 Dodge Super Bee 426
José–1965 Corvette Mako Shark II
Reggie–1968 Chevy ZL1 Camaro
Adam–1970 Dodge Hemi Coronet R/T
George–1968 Corvette Cosma Ray
James–1964 Aston Martin DBS
Eleanor–1967 Mustang Shelby GT500
I’VE CHEWED MY FINGERNAILS TO the quick and turned the inside of my cheek into raw hamburger. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.
Everything rests on tonight.
At any other time, the steady rumble of Nick’s Mustang would provide comfort. Now it just heightens my anxiety. I can’t shake the feeling that Roger’s onto us, that this is all going to blow up in our faces.
Nick shines the headlights on the first gate of the Trophy Case. Chelsea has already started working on picking the lock.
“I can’t do it.” Her voice is pained, like she’s teetering on tears.
If she cries, I’m done too. It’s building up, the weariness in my muscles, the monotonous pounding of a never-ending migraine. I’m now almost thirty-six hours without sleep and I still have no idea if Emma’s alive. Hurt.
Dead.
“I know I said there wasn’t a lock I couldn’t pick . . .” Chelsea breaks off with a string of curses. “But fuck, you guys, I think this is it.”
“You can do it,” I croak out.
Behind us, Mat has abandoned trying to disarm the alarms and moved on to disabling the cameras. The plan must be executed with pinpoint precision–one slipup and the domino effect will be catastrophic.
Nick takes my hand.
The warmth helps, but my entire body still trembles. “What if we can’t get Emma?”
He squeezes.
A single tear burns a trail down my cheek.
Even he’d admit our plan’s shaky at best. Roger will head to the warehouse when we tell him we’ve got the Aston Martin. But getting Riley there before Roger realizes we’ve duped him is going to take a timing miracle. And perhaps the scariest part is convincing Riley to let Emma go before things get crazy.
Unless Mat and Chelsea find her first–which is the plan.
Mat has hacked into Kevin’s cell phone and downloaded his GPS coordinates–we tracked him to a small house owned by Riley’s cousin on the outskirts of town. Nick says the guy is a long-haul trucker and isn’t home much. It’s a stretch, but Mat figures Riley is keeping Emma there with Kevin. Riley will bring reinforcements to the warehouse and Kevin won’t expect Mat to have found him. Kevin doesn’t do well with surprises.
Nick takes my chin in his fingertips and gently turns my face to his. For one perfect moment, I almost believe everything can be okay. He touches my cheekbone, my jawline, studying me like this is our last moment together. As though somehow, tonight marks the end. I don’t know, maybe it does.
“We can do this, Jules.”
I’m not convinced. Breaking into the Trophy Case is our biggest challenge yet.
He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. They’re sweet like cotton candy, feather-soft. “Nick . . .”
Chelsea’s voice breaks through the moment. “Holy fuck, you guys, I did it!”
I shake it off. “We’re up.”
Nick kisses me again. “Good luck.”
I slide into the driver’s seat and wait while Nick and Mat cut the perimeter alarms. Listen for anything unusual. I keep my eyes trained to the rearview, watching for headlights, surprise guests. There’s no real reason Roger should suspect anything, except, as we’ve already figured out, he’s a crafty SOB.
Chelsea unlocks the second gate and I drive through. Mat takes the second car and parks it around the corner by the Dumpster outside the fence. Hidden, but not camouflaged.
I meet Chelsea at the front door.
She digs a pick out of her pack and holds it up into the light. “Behold, the Slagel.”
It looks the same as the rest of her tools, a slender metal rod with a jagged-edged tip. “Sounds like something out of Lord of the Rings.”
“That’s Smeagol.” She gives me a look that suggests I’m an idiot for not knowing the difference. “This is for electronic locks–designed by James Slagel, a security guru for IBM.”
“Still lost.”
Chelsea inserts the tool into the keyhole and grunts. “It works by . . . shit . . . by selectively pulling internal parts of the . . .” There’s a loud snap. “Fuck.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “Tell me you didn’t break it.”
“Of course I broke it,” she says. “And I just fixed this stupid nail.”
The tension bunched between my shoulder blades loosens a bit.
Seconds later, the lock disengages.
“Holy crap, Chelsea, it worked!”
She blows on the end of the Slagel like it’s a loaded pistol and strikes a pose. “I am totally rocking this lock picker shit.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch Nick and Mat jogging toward us. “Yeah, you are.” My voice goes soft and I work hard not to cry. “Find Emma, okay?”
She pulls me into a hug. “Be safe.”
I hang on a little longer, seeking assurance, comfort, a sign that this is all going to work out. It means trusting everyone to do their part–and I’ve never been very good at that.
“You’re set,” Mat says, as Chelsea and I break apart. “Alarms are down. Cameras too.”
I press my hand against his cheek. “You’re a genius.”
He tries to shrug it away, but I can see the emotion trapped behind his dark eyes. They shimmer just like mine. I look away to chase the tears.
“This is it, guys,” I say. “No turning back from here.”
Mat squeezes my hand. “I should stay.”
“No. You and Chelsea need to find Emma.” I inhale a shaky breath. “Please, bring my sister home.”
“We’ll bring our sister home,” Mat says. He pushes a piece of paper into the palm of my hand. “This is the VIN number for Eleanor. You know where to find the VIN, right?”
I must look annoyed because he rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Of course you do.”
“It won’t matter,” Nick says. “Riley doesn’t know anything about the Morrison angle. Any of those Shelbys will work.”
He’s right, but stealing the Morrison car from right under Roger’s nose feels justified, a little payback for betraying us, for having the car all along. If I have time, that’s the one I’ll take.
We gather in a circle for a moment of silence. A chance to think, plan, pray . . . to believe. I don’t know what happens next, whether we can pull off what needs to be done, but I’m struck by the overwhelming sense that after so many years chasing the ghosts of my past, I’m finally right where I belong.
I bounce on the tips of my toes and shake out the nerves.
Blood rushes through my veins.
“It’s go time,” I say.
• • •
When they’re back in a cell reception zone, Chelsea will call Roger and say we’ve recovered the Aston Martin. Three minutes after that, Mat will message Riley and confirm that we have the Shelby, and that we’ve arranged a meeting with our buyer–at a secret locati
on we’ll reveal only when he releases Emma.
Mat has Photoshopped a series of pictures showing Nick with one of the Shelbys to show to Riley as proof. If I hadn’t seen him do it, I would have thought them real.
Finally, Chelsea will call the police.
It’s this last part that makes me the most nervous, and the reason the timing must be in sync. For it to work, everyone–including the cops–must converge at the Trophy Case around roughly the same time. Hopefully, the police will provide enough of a distraction for Nick and me to make a clean getaway, while still bringing both Riley and Roger to justice.
Nick and I run through the hallways, yanking open doors that have been disarmed thanks to Mat’s mad hacking skills. I’m nervous and scared, but there’s something else too. The rush of adrenaline that makes me wonder if, when this is all over, I can truly give it up.
We push through the last door and flick on the main lights. The overhead fluorescents flicker and buzz to life. As soon as my eyes adjust, I spot the three Mustangs.
My heart feels like it’s falling into my stomach.
“I can’t believe he painted it,” I say, running my hand along the hood of the first car. It’s not Eleanor.
“Over here,” Nick says. “The numbers match.”
The real Eleanor is a magnet, pulling me to her. I touch the doors, the headlights, the bumper, the tires. My fingers trail along the twin racing stripes up the center of the hood, and then the single line of white along the side.
My pulse thrums with the need to drive her.
To hear the roar of the engine and feel the torque from three hundred twenty solid pounds of horse.
Nick twirls me around and kisses me hard on the lips. “Stay in one piece.”
I hate that we have to separate, but one of us has to keep watch. If Riley arrives with the Aston Martin first, Nick will lead him to me and the car to negotiate a trade-off. If it’s Roger, he’ll distract him. Somehow. And if, by some terrible turn of events, the police are first to arrive on the scene . . .
We’re screwed.
Without working cell phones, there’s no logical way to manage the timing.
“Go,” I say, pushing him toward the door. It’s too hard to think with him around anyway.
