He lets out a grunt, rolling his shoulder as he stomps out of the pantry. He reaches into his pocket and pulls a knife.
Chances are that one is real.
“Give me the painting, or this finds a new home in your neck. I’m not going to ask again.”
A chill sweeps through my spine. It’s not an empty threat. He’s done this before.
“He doesn’t have it. I do.” Maya steps out from behind a pillar.
“No.” I turn around, to protect her, to do something that will make her disappear, but in my momentary distraction, the man grabs my neck, pressing the cool, sharp blade against my skin. If he presses any harder, I’m gone. My blood goes cold. Not for my own sake, but for hers and Bella’s. Why did she come back? She was supposed to take Bella and go. She could be safe right now.
“Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” the man mutters dryly. “Now take me to it or your boy toy dies right in front of your eyes.”
Maya swallows. “Okay.”
I try to plead silently with her not to do this, but she avoids looking in my direction.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but the knife presses firmly against my skin. He shoves me forward with him, following as Maya leads the way through the penthouse.
“You have to promise you’ll leave if I give it to you,” Maya says.
“That’s all I wanted in the first place,” he says. It’s not an answer to her question, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s in the living room,” Maya says.
No, it’s not. I’ve been in that room a hundred times since she hid it. I would have seen it. Does she have a plan, or is she trying to get me killed?
Was my kissing that bad?
I want to ask her what she’s doing, but she still refuses to look at me. And then she goes to the TV. She presses a brick beneath the screen, and a wide, skinny drawer pops open.
No.
It’s been there this whole time? How?
There’s something in Maya’s face—a look in her eyes that’s conflicting. Like she’s sorry, but maybe relieved to get rid of the stupid thing. I can’t blame her; it’s caused nothing but mayhem. All she wants to do is protect Bella.
Maya reaches into the drawer and gently pulls out the painting. The velvet backing of the frame has come loose on the bottom corner from all the scuffling for the piece. I hope it’s still worth the same whenIleave here with it.
“Ah, there you are,” the man says to the painting.
“Let him go,” Maya says, her voice far from shaking. I’m proud of her. She’s come a long way since the first time she came face-to-face with a thief. Either she’s gotten used to the danger or it was me specifically scaring her. I don’t have time to access my internal psychologist to analyze that.
“I’ll release him after you hand over the painting and let me walk out of here,” the man says.
“That’s not what we agreed,” Maya shoots back.
“Whatyouagreed, doll. Give me the painting.”
Finally, finally, Maya looks at me. Utter hopelessness lines her eyes, but I give her a slight nod, sayingit’s okay, I’ve got this. He can’t hold a knife to my throat and hold a painting. He’s going to have to choose.
And he does.
He slices the knife across my shoulder. A blinding pain disables me as he releases me and races out of the living room, painting in hand.
Maya screams, but I don’t stop to comfort her. I run, blinking rapidly to stay focused on anything but the warmth running down my arm. He’s heading to the balcony. But why?
“There’s no way out of here,” I yell as I hit the slick balcony. But I failed to notice something earlier when I was searching for Maya out here.
