Page 10 of Heist in Paradise

I crept soundlessly down the corridor until I came to a pretty spiral staircase made of solid wood with ornate iron banisters. I peered upwards through the cavity and counted three floors. Then I looked down at the basement below.

Big fat nope.

I didn’t like horror movies, and I was secure enough in myself to admit that I wouldn’t last very long. I wasn’t the Final Girl. I was the girl who got killed in the first ten minutes, probably wearing a skimpy bikini and forgetting how to run without tripping over every possible obstacle.

Shuddering, I climbed up to the next landing and found myself in a bright atrium connecting the two main living areas. No doubt the architect wanted to maximize the ocean's views and natural light—instead, I felt like I was caught in a petri dish.

A pretty foreign invader.

Unnerved, I took out the switchblade I’d bought from the gas station. There was still a plastic film on the blade, which I removed with a loud rip. Then I continued up the stairs. The top floor was bright and airy, with natural wood paneling and large skylights that created incriminating spotlights. For an art dealer, he had a surprisingly rudimentary collection: a few portraits of beautiful landscapes, some abstract pieces with natural undertones like clays and browns. I was no art critic, but I could appreciate the consistency of theme.

The master bedroom gave me an itchy feeling. It was perfectly innocuous, tidy, and clean. But it still felt like the ultimate violation.

I thought of my own bedroom—the gentle pink and white hues, the mantle of cheer trophies and ribbons, the dozens of scented candles that had become like a vigil to Molly. I had a beloved soft teddy collection that Heath, my dickish ex-boyfriend, liked to pin down and hump because he had the emotional maturity of a sock.

I was glad I’d dumped him. It was a bit pathetic that I’d cried over it. Heath had accused me of milking my depression. I’d retaliated by throwing my favorite lamp at his head. A blistering argument later, I’d called it off. Part of me still dwelled on what he said, the scrap of truth in it.

I had been stuck on Molly for two years. Trapped by the unknown, held hostage to the grizzly possibilities that ran rampant in my head. That was why I’d finally decided to do something about it.

I was going to put my demons to rest, even if it meant uncovering them first.

Starting with Salvadore.

Fighting off the icks, I raided his nightstands. They were completely empty, which was strange. Just dust and lint balls. I did a cursory check under the bed—nothing. Not even a stray sock.

It was like a hotel room. Cold, impersonal. The wardrobe proved just as disheartening—shirts ironed and sorted by color, shoes polished on the racks, a monogrammed bathrobe on the back of the door, slippers slotted neatly beneath it. By pure luck, I found the secret compartment with his expensive watches and accessories. I stared at the collection pensively.

Was I petty enough to steal from him? I knew my morals had become wonky lately. I’d done some pretty sketchy things to get where I needed.

Groaning, I pushed the compartment shut. Not even a full second later, I yanked it back open and stuffed a watch and two diamond cufflinks into my backpack. Molly’s judgmental face hovered in my mind. Thief, she said. Karma, I snapped back.

With the main bedroom yielding no results, I moved on to the ensuite. The shower was enormous, all exposed rock and two hanging showerheads. The countertops were lined with expensive colognes and lotions, a solitary toothbrush, a ceramic plate with folded towels, and hand soaps.

“This guy screams American Psycho,” I murmured aloud, catching myself in the reflection. As predicted, my skin had bronzed under the sun, my honey-blonde hair frizzy where it swung in my high ponytail. My lips were chapped from the salty sea air. I shopped the lotions consideringly, then quickly dismissed putting anything on my body that had touched his. On habit, I found Molly in the gray-blue of my eyes, the roundness of my face. We’d been mistaken as twins when we were younger, but her late teens had been kind to her. She’d grown a foot taller, her face had become sharper, and her lips fuller. She’d been offered modeling jobs by small labels, who described her look as “girl-next-door with an edge”. I was still waiting for my own glow up—I desperately wanted to lose the baby fat that clung to my face—but I feared the grief had stunted me. My eyes were a bit too sunken, the lines a bit too deep. I was still a ruthless gymnast, and I kept it tight, but the late nights and caffeine addiction were catching up to me. I drank guilt smoothies, so I wouldn’t die from scurvy or malnutrition, but looking after myself had become an afterthought.

Mouth twisting in disdain, I continued my search of the top landing. A sitting room that looked like it belonged in a showroom. A small study nook with personalized letterheads: Theodore Salvadore. Black pens only. A collection of limited-edition encyclopedias.

A shiver of unease traveled up my spine. Everything was too perfect. Too pristine. The feeling lingered, an uncomfortable knot twisting in my stomach. Scratching the back of my neck, I glanced nervously over my shoulder. Shafts of green-tinged sunlight siphoned through the skylights, the trapped dust swirling at my intrusion.

I felt like prey. Exposed, out in the open plains.

Observed.

Gripping my knife harder, I returned to the main bedroom so I could peek through the window that overlooked the front of the mansion. So focused on my destination, I didn’t clock the shadow until it was too late.

A force barreled into me, toppling me onto the bed. My mouth went dry as bone, my body lashing out instinctively in terror. A hand caught my flailing fist, pinning it next to my head. My knife was plucked from my fingers in one seamless motion. Then the weight shifted, trapping my insurgent legs and my hips to the mattress.

The air was punched out of my lungs.

“Stop,” a voice commanded drily in my ear.

Mindless with panic, I obeyed. A man hovered over me. To my fear-sharpened eyes, he appeared in stark definition: dark hair and pale skin, vivid green eyes above a black face bandana with white roses. A glint of silver on his eyebrow. A very faint spatter of freckles across his nose, just above the cloth.

I had a funny suspicion he wasn’t the handyman.

His grip tightened on my wrists, my fingers pulsing at the lack of blood. “Who are you?”

“I…” God, my mind was blank. I couldn’t form the words, couldn’t think beyond the white rush of fear.