Page 9 of Heist in Paradise

He grinned and plastered himself to her side. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I’m sticking to you like wet on bread.”

“That’s not even a thing.”

I raised my hand toward Madoc, then paused. After a short nod, I gave his bare shoulder a squeeze. His skin was hot beneath my palm. “You got this?”

Madoc removed his trademark face bandana from his back pocket, black with white roses. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

I grinned at him.

Once Zola disabled the alarm system, Madoc ducked beneath the canopy and disappeared into the thick brush surrounding the mansion. I listened to his careful breathing in my ear, matching it to my own. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

What felt like an eternity later, he confirmed: “I’m in.”

I checked my watch. “Six minutes, Sparrow. Not bad.”

“Shut up.”

I did, biting back another grin.

Showtime.

OLIVIA

“Ow. Crap.”

Wriggling through an air vent wasn’t as easy as the movies made it seem. John McClane lied to me. The vent was dusty and tight, and the only way I managed to move at all was by thrusting upwards like a worm, my arms trapped uselessly by my sides. Every inch gained was a punishment to my sinuses. I sneezed so hard that I saw Jesus.

Note to self: clean air vents at home.

Not that I planned to do this ever again. I wasn’t someone who broke into houses. I was a nice, normal, preppy cheerleader with a stable boyfriend and a trust fund. Or at least, I used to be.

I hadn’t picked up the pom-poms in a few months, hadn’t tumbled or cheered for anything other than reruns of The Bachelor. That stable boyfriend was being a total dick, which was usually my type except that he’d doubled down on the dickery lately. I’d drained my bank account to fund this crusade, and the prevailing hope that I’d finally escape my parents’ toxic scrutiny was becoming a distant dream.

Still, I had no regrets yet. In fact, I couldn’t believe I’d even made it this far. I kept expecting the universe to screw me over. But that skeevy fisherman I’d bribed this morning hadn’t chopped me up like white girl sushi. That dingy boat he owned hadn’t sailed into a random storm and sunk. Not even the alarm system around the mansion had tripped yet.

It was probably temporary, the calm before the storm.

Thank god Salvadore had been in London for that art show. Every second counted, and I needed all the time I could to search his house.

Everything about the old guy was suspicious. A billionaire who lived on a remote island. Never married, never had kids. The public dubbed him a recluse, one of those artsy types who actively snubbed interviews and shirked away from politics. He didn’t do charity work, didn’t rub shoulders with the elite, or mingle with high society. Not that I blamed him for that—I hated the circles more than anything—but it made tracking him down way more difficult.

It seemed impossible that someone like him could have ever crossed paths with Molly, a diligent twenty-two-year-old college student. It wasn’t like Molly ever took an interest in art. She never painted or took up photography, and never mentioned Salvadore as a potential patron to showcase her pieces. Molly was a law student. She was dry, boring, and practical, just the way my parents liked it. It wasn’t in her nature to rebel. And yet, somehow, she was convinced to travel five thousand miles away from home to a remote island without telling a single soul. Molly, the same person who couldn’t swallow a single mouthful of yogurt without scrutinizing the fat content.

How did they meet? How did she get here?

What did he do to her?

My head smacked into metal. I froze, the sound reverberating like a gunshot all around me. I’d reached the end. Drawing on my superior flexibility, I freed one arm and used my body's momentum to punch through the grille. It popped out with surprising ease, clattering loudly to the ground below.

My backpack went next. Once it dropped, I wriggled through the opening and tucked-flipped to the ground. My fists shot up like muscle memory, a perfect high V.

Goooooo me!

Huffing at my own ridiculousness, I smoothed down my hair and tugged on my shirt to remove the creases. I was covered in dust and grime from the boat, but it didn’t matter. I’d actually done it. I’d broken in.

Unable to shake my pessimism, I looked around warily. I expected to end up somewhere terrifying, like a torture room. Instead, I found myself in the pantry. High shelves stacked with canned goods and pickled condiments, giant sacks of flour, salt, and sugar in the corners. It made sense; he couldn’t exactly make a quick pit stop at his local Walmart.

I still eyed the jars suspiciously, half expecting to find pickled organs or a perfectly preserved fetus. My hands were shaking when I reached the door. I opened it slowly. But no bodies fell out. No human meat locker or table full of bloody surgical instruments. Just a normal, windowless service corridor. I exhaled in relief. So far, so good.