“I’m disappointed Ruby would become friends with someone like you.”
I stood up and opened the hotel door. “Enjoy your relationship with Ruby while you can. You’ve got about two weeks left before she gets bored with you. Now, unless you’d like to accuse me of any other crimes, I suggest you get the fuck out.”
Grace calmly gathered up her massive file folder, grabbed her bag from the floor and left the room.
I slammed the heavy hotel door behind her. I went straight to the bathroom and stood over the sink, taking several deep breaths, willing myself not to puke.
Ruby, you really fucked up this time.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I shoved open the glass door at the Cedar & Watson office. I was relieved to see Ruby’s receptionist wasn’t in, and Eli wasn’t around either. Ruby was on the floor of her office, papers and folders and files surrounding her, a couple half-filled office supply boxes nearby.
“Hey, gorgeous,” she said sweetly, looking up at me from her chaotic mess of paperwork. “What’s up?”
My jaw ached from how much I’d been clenching it on the way to Ruby’s office.
“Grace just came to see me. Why did you tell her I went to California?”
“I just mentioned that you and Rhys went to California for a romantic getaway—”
“Did you actually call him Rhys, or did you call him my boyfriend?”
“I-I don’t even remember. I think I just called him your boyfriend,” she said, concerned.
“Good. Now, why did you tell her about California?”
“Because she’s my girlfriend, and couples talk. What’s the matter with you?”
“Grace has been collecting evidence on me. She’s got a huge-ass folder of stuff—thefts she suspects I was involved with, photos connecting me to crime scenes, and that’s just the things she showed me. She knows about my dad, she knows about me breaking into that professor’s house in college, she knows my parents don’t own a ski lodge—”
“What? How would she know those things?”
“Because she’s a fucking cop and can look this shit up.” I let out a breath slowly, trying to stay calm. It wasn’t working. “You shouldn’t have even thought about opening your mouth about me to her at all. I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?”
Ruby looked up at me, wide-eyed. “I—”
“She wouldn’t even know I existed if you could’ve done us both a solid and not slept with her in the first place. I mean, look at yourself! You’re closing up shop for a woman you’ve dated for what, two months? I know you, Ruby. You’re going to be tired of her soon, and after the messy breakup, you’ll be left with nothing. Grace will be gone, you won’t have your dream job and I’ll be in prison, because your future ex-girlfriend seems determined to put me there.”
I started toward the door but decided I wasn’t quite done yet.
“If you say another word to Grace about me,” I said, the words pouring out of me, “I’ll tell Grace about your other clients. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about them.”
I spotted a folder on the floor with my name on it. I grabbed it and left as quickly as I could.
“Molly, wait!”
I didn’t stop.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rhys was already back at the hotel room when I returned. I went straight for my suitcase and started throwing things inside.
“Molly? Molly, what’s wrong?”
“Grace knows I’m a thief,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. I told him about the file folder and the photos. “As soon as she gets anything concrete on me, I’m done. I’m in prison. I’m not going to let that happen. No, sir.”
I grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom. “I want to pick up a few things from my place, and then you and I are gone.”
Rhys sat on the corner of the bed, sorting everything out in his mind. “Is there a chance Ruby could tell her to back off?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear the big news?” I exclaimed, forcing the zipper on my messy suitcase. “Ruby is on the straight-and-narrow now. Turns out she’s giving up her extremely profitable business because she’s in love.” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know if Ruby and I will ever be friends again after this.”
Rhys packed up his things, and we checked out of the hotel. We took a cab over to Brooklyn, possibly the longest taxi ride I’ve ever taken. Evening had arrived in Manhattan, making every skyscraper we passed cast a long shadow over the street, cars and pedestrians below.
Despite the potential danger of returning home, I found some relief when we arrived back in Brooklyn. Just as I’d hoped, the place was cleaned up, my sofa was gone and the only thing left of my bed was the frame.
I bet most people aren’t happy to see a bunch of their things missing when they get home from a hotel stay.
I threw some clean underwear in my suitcase while Rhys checked for flights out of New York as soon as possible.
“Wait,” he said, looking up from his phone. “Where are we even going? Back to London or somewhere else?”
“I don’t care. Anywhere but here.”
While zipping my suitcase, movement from outside a living room window caught my eye—a large man walked by the front windows toward the front door.
“Rhys, we have go now,” I said quietly.
“I’m looking, I’m looking,” he said.
“No. Now,” I said quietly, rushing downstairs. “The Muscle is outside.”
Rhys looked up from his phone just as The Muscle peered in at us through the kitchen door window.
Whipping the back door open, I hurled myself over the patio railing, Rhys right behind me. The sound of a gunshot pierced the air, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
I looked over my shoulder to check the damage. “Dude, my window!”
Rhys grabbed my hand as we raced down the sidewalk. “Forget the window!”
Before I could return to looking ahead of me, the wide frame of The Muscle came careening around the corner, gunning it faster than I would expect from a man of that mass.
Another gunshot rang out, hitting a parked car just inches from me. Rhys yanked me into the street, causing a driver to swerve, barely avoiding a collision. He flipped us off out the window and screeched off.
My legs ached as my feet pounded the cement sidewalk. It was early evening in the late summer, so the streets were filled with people. I assumed someone had called the police by the time we reached Prospect Park West, weaving through cars waiting for the light. Rhys never let go of my hand. The traffic crept forward as we reached the park and the light turned green.
We hopped the short stone wall surrounding the park. I checked over my shoulder again—The Muscle was waiting for a break in traffic and catching his breath just on the other side.
Dodging pedestrians and cyclists in the park, we bolted by the bandshell and into West Drive. A car beeped at us as we dashed in front of it.
“Quick, this way,” I said, pulling Rhys into the little wooded area beyond the path.
Another gunshot. Other people on the park path screamed around us. I let go of Rhys’s hand as we zigzagged between trees, hoping two moving targets would be harder to hit.
We were almost right.
The next shot The Muscle fired at us skimmed the edge of my arm, just above my elbow.
“Oh my god, that hurts!” I shrieked, falling onto some dried leaves.
Rhys grabbed my other arm and hauled me up to my feet. “Sorry soldier. Can’t stop!”
A stream of thick red blood oozed out of my arm, trickling down onto my shirt and pants. Even though it was just a graze, it hurt like hell. But I knew we had to keep running, or else we’d be dead.
The wooded area ended abruptly. There were about fifty people running around like mad, panicking because of the gunshots and not knowing where they came from or which way to go.
“Do you think he’d shoot into a crowd?”
Rhys yanked me in that direction. “Only one way to f
ind out!”
We joined the crowd of freaked out park-goers. I squeezed Rhys’s hand and nodded toward the Ravine, a forest area on the other side of the meadow. I looked over my shoulder.
The Muscle was on the other side of the clearing, looking around but keeping his gun out of sight.
“You’ve been shot!” someone screamed nearby.
A woman was losing her shit, pointing at the blood dripping down my arm.
“I know,” I said. “Please stop screaming.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The Muscle had heard and was running right toward us.
“Thanks, lady!” I yelled as we made for the path leading into the forest.
We quickly left the narrow path of the forest and headed into the lush greenery. Rhys stumbled over a rock. I pulled him up, and we kept running until there were only nature sounds around us. Just the breeze winding its way through the trees that surrounded us on all sides as far as we could see. No people or traffic, and, most importantly, no gunshots.
We found a little brook and sat down to catch our breath. Rhys carefully cupped some water in his hands and did his best to clean my wound. He tore his shirtsleeve off and tied it around my arm.
Rhys playing doctor is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
“How bad does it hurt?” His eyes left the surgery site for a moment to meet my gaze.
“Well, a lot,” I said. “But it could’ve been worse.”
It hurt more than I let on. I also knew I might be in shock a little bit.
I watched Rhys’s face intently as he worked.
“Why are you staring at me?” he said, sitting up again, content with his patch job.
I smiled and kissed him. “Thank you.”
Thanks to the GPS on Rhys’s phone, we navigated our way out of the forest and back into civilization.
“Well, we can’t go back to my place,” I said. “Ruby’s is no longer an option.”
“We should go to a hospital, make sure you’re alright.”
“No hospitals. I’m told they tend to ask questions when gunshot wounds are involved,” I said, staring out at the stream of traffic. “I know where we can go.”
One fifteen-minute cab ride later, we were in front of Paul McCoy’s pawnshop. It was closed for the evening, but their apartment was just upstairs. Rhys followed me up the fire escape, standing behind me awkwardly as I knocked on the door.
Someone approached the door on the other side and gasped. The door swung open, and Deanne, Paul’s wife, gaped at me.
“Your arm!” she exclaimed. “Come in, come in!”
Rhys joined Paul in the 1970s-style living room while Deanne applied some first aid to my arm, the bloodstained makeshift bandage discarded.
I winced as she put some kind of antibacterial ointment on it. “I take it this isn’t your first time dealing with a gunshot wound.”
Deanne, who had already changed into her evening loungewear (a silk kimono, naturally), rolled her eyes. “I haven’t for a while, but back in the day…” She glanced at Paul and continued, peering at me over her round glasses. “Are you going to tell us what happened, dear?”
I hesitated.
Paul turned around in his chair to look at me. “Betty, are you in some sort of trouble?”
I sighed and told them everything. Paul and Deanne nodded calmly.
“The Lamonds aren’t a good family to tangle with, my dear,” Paul said.
I winced again as Deanne wrapped the wound in a proper bandage. “You know them?”
“Certainly. Their man Kenneth and I go way back.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Which one is Kenneth again?”
“The Muscle,” I said. “That reminds me, how did they get back into the country without you noticing?”
“They must have bought their plane tickets using fake identities I don’t know about.” Rhys looked at me. “I’m so sorry I let you down.”
“No, no. I wasn’t blaming you,” I said. “That’s not what I meant.”
Rhys nodded slowly, chewing on the edge of his thumbnail as he stared at the brown carpet.
Paul frowned, thinking. “I’d like to set up a meeting between you and Stan’s kid so everyone can clear the air.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Rhys said. “I’d like to live a few more years.”
Paul looked at me and sighed. “Your boyfriend thinks he’s funny.”
Rhys smiled weakly.
Paul stood and went to the phone in the kitchen. (It had a cord and everything!) “I’ll give Kenneth a call and help sort this out.”
Deanne smiled at me. “All done. Now, you and Rhys will spend the night here. Oh! Do you like pancakes?”
I was so relieved in that moment that I wanted to cry. Also, I really just love pancakes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Paul set up the meeting between Team Stan and our side (“I think it should be called ‘Team Molly.’” “Why not ‘Team Rhys?’” “Because ‘Team Rhys’ reminds me of Reese’s Pieces, and it makes me want a snack.”) on neutral territory: a diner near Paul’s pawnshop in Brooklyn.
“I know the owner,” Paul explained. “I slid him a few bucks to close the place for us for thirty minutes.”
Rhys and I sat on one side of the table, Paul sat on the end, and the two chairs across from us were left empty for Ezra and The Muscle.
Rhys checked his phone. “They’re late.”
“They’ll show up,” Paul said, lifting his pudgy hand. “Me ‘n Kenneth go way back.”
Rhys sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.
Sure enough, a few minutes later The Muscle and Ezra arrived. Paul stood and shook hands with Kenneth.
“Good to see you, old man,” Paul said with a laugh.
“Who you calling old man, old man?” The Muscle replied with a smile. “How’s the wife and kids?”
I’d never seen him smile before. It was jarring.
While The Muscle and Paul got caught up, Ezra looked at us, a subtle smug little grin playing on his lips. He shook Paul’s hand and nodded in respectful greeting.
The Muscle started toward the table, but Paul frowned at him. “Come on, Kenneth. Aren’t you missing a step?”
He grumbled under his breath and pulled out the handgun he’d been keeping tucked into the back of his pants. He placed the gun on its side on the diner counter and knelt down, pulling his smaller gun from his ankle holster and placing it on the counter too.
Paul nodded to the table, and The Muscle joined us. Ezra stepped up and placed his own pistol on the counter.
Ezra approached us. “How do we know you’re not carrying?”
“Neither of you got shot yesterday,” I reminded him.
Ezra touched his emerald green tie, smoothing out a crease that wasn’t actually there before looking straight at me. “Maybe I should pat you down, just to make sure.”
Rhys sat up in his seat. “If you lay a fucking hand on her—”
“Hey,” Paul said. “We’re all adults here, and we’re going to play nicely. Ezra, sit down.”
Ezra threw a wild-eyed glare at Paul, yanking the chair out with a loud screech against the tile floor.
“We’re going to clear the air and answer questions either side may have,” Paul began. “We’ll go from there. Twenty minutes from now, we’ll all go our separate ways. Mr. Lamond, why don’t you start?”
“What happened that night in the farmhouse in Amsterdam?” Ezra spoke slowly and deliberately, enunciating every word carefully.
“We were driving away from Amsterdam with the Picasso painting, and we were stopped on the way out of the city by your father, who was wearing a police uniform,” I said.
Rhys picked it up. “He made us drive to the farmhouse. We waited for Delacroix to arrive. He was running late, but he eventually arrived—”
“Delacroix and Stan got into a fight about how the finder’s fee for the Picasso should be split up,” I said, cutting in. I wanted to skip over the part
about me encouraging Delacroix to shoot Stan and take all the money for himself, since he’d done a lot more of the work.
“And then Delacroix shot Stan in the stomach, and Stan shot back, hitting Delacroix in the forehead. And we got away.”
“I don’t believe you,” Ezra said quietly, his hands curled into tight fists. “Delacroix was working for us. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Neither of us are into guns,” Rhys said. “I’m from the UK, for Pete’s sake.”
“So you’re saying you just left my father on the floor, bleeding to death?”
“We thought he was going to shoot us too, if we didn’t get out of there. We were scared for our lives,” I said. “I mean, he was pointing a gun at us moments before he was shot.”
The Muscle spoke up. “What happened to Carl and your sister?”
I swallowed. The image of Carl putting a knife to Haylee’s throat still haunted me, the thought of it making my stomach turn inside out.
“Delacroix had the two of them on a video chat on his phone,” I said. “They wanted to know who we were working for in regards to the painting. There was a gunshot. We didn’t see who it was.”
“We’re not idiots,” Ezra seethed. “We know it was your father.”
“He was protecting his daughter,” I said.
“Carl was my godfather. He was family, and now he’s dead,” Ezra said. “Carl’s dead, and my dad’s in a coma, all because of your people.”
“I swear, Rhys and I did not shoot your father.”
“Even if that’s true, which I don’t think it is,” he snapped, “you left him to die.”
“Most people aren’t in a rush to save the guy who wants to kill them,” Rhys said, raising his voice.
“If my father dies, both of you die,” Ezra yelled back.
“Hey!” Paul slapped the table with his palm. “Everyone calm down. Molly and Rhys weren’t lying when they said they’re not into guns. They’re thieves, not murderers. That may not be what you want to hear, but I believe that’s the truth. Move on.”
Ezra stared at the tabletop for a moment, the gears in his twisted mind grinding away. He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Honor Among Thieves Page 7
