Page 84 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Thumbs shaking, she fumbled her email password three times. When she finally opened her account, she yelped.

She had one message. From her dead father.

What in the actual fuck?

No matter how much she blinked, the message was still there. From a deceased man. She opened it, her stomach lurching. Just as quickly, her confusion spun into horror.

Daddy loved you, Clementine. And he’s dead. No one you love will ever be safe.

That last line. She knew it. Yevgen had spat those words while his blade had twisted in her gut, and all the strange happenings the past week roared back: feeling like she was being watched, the moved alarm cord, the fallen thread in her motel. It hadn’t been her who’d knocked off that thread, after all. Yevgen had been stalking them.

He must have hacked into her email and found her letters to her father, details about her affections for Jack and Whichway. She didn’t do tech jobs, but hacking wasn’t a stretch, and that unforgettable line made this invasion personal.

Heart in her throat, she scoured the audience. When she didn’t find Yevgen, her eyes landed on Jack. So confident. No stutter in sight. He was handsome and kind and had forgiven her for her deceits. And this was how she repaid him? Bringing danger to his town, his family?

No. No way would she put him at risk. Not now, or ever. This wasn’t even about the painting for Yevgen. He’d hated her since the first prize she’d stolen out from under him, and he wanted to hurt her where it counted. She still couldn’t wrap her head around his obsession, but dissecting his motivations wouldn’t help her. Only one thing would. The hardest thing.

She had to leave Jack.

She choked on a sob, but what did she expect? Criminals didn’t ride off into the sunset. Getting everything she wanted wasn’t in the cards for her. If Yevgen wasn’t a threat, someone else would be. She’d stolen from people. Those actions came with consequences. Hers was losing Jack.

Frantic, she checked if Lucien answered her text. Nothing. She sent him a quick email, then typed a reply to Yevgen, using Lucien’s teachings about long cons as she went, how the aftercare was as important as the initial lure. Make yourself inculpable, Lucien would say. Give them what they need. Fill the emotional void they crave and they’ll never suspect you.

She’d done it often, would spend a couple of weeks with her marks after a heist, as a friend or confidant. Go on the occasional date. Disappearing as soon as a job was performed raised suspicion, so she’d flirt expertly, avoid intimacy, and string them along until the coast was clear.

She knew this game. She just had to convince Yevgen this was a long con and she wasn’t soul-deep in love with Jack. Once she and the painting were away from here, there’d be no reason for Yevgen to stay.

She controlled her breaths as she reread her reply.

You’re as gullible as my mark, Yevgen. Not that I should be surprised. Nabbed the painting a week ago. Lucien has it. Had a slipup and had to take the con deeper, but when I “accidentally” leave these emails open for Jack to read, gushing about my love for him, he’ll believe my tears when I break up with him to take a job overseas. If they discover the forgery, he’ll never suspect me. You, however, are an easy suspect. I could drop that torn piece of your shirt in the house as evidence. Place a call. Quit stalking me, or I’ll sing.

The last line made her think of Jack’s knee-weakening voice and everything she’d be leaving. The pain was hard to breathe through, but she didn’t have a choice. She had to focus on facing a madman.

Just to be safe, she did a directory search and called Jack’s mother, who answered swiftly.

“Hi, Sylvia. It’s Clementine.” She stuck her finger in her other ear to drown the arena noise. “Jack wanted me to let you know there was a break-in outside of town, one of the tourists likely. Nothing to worry about, but he wants you to put on your alarm and make sure all doors are locked.”

Sylvia tutted. “What a shame. Seems like the festival draws unsavory sorts these days. Are you at the concert? How was Jack?”

Clementine couldn’t talk about Jack. One word about him, and she’d break. “It’s loud and I’m having trouble hearing you. Just make sure you set the alarm.”

She barely listened as Sylvia agreed and hung up. Yevgen hadn’t replied yet. He could be heading to the estate now. Her thumb hovered over the number nine. Calling the cops and alerting them to Yevgen would be smart, an extra step to ensure protection, but her throat dried. She’d be implicated. Yevgen would disappear as usual, evade detection, and she’d wind up in the slammer.

Sicker than before, she lowered the phone with a shaky hand.

Best thing she could do was disappear from Whichway and never come back. Start over somewhere new. Be a lone tree. Living in a forest as lush as this meant forest fires could strike.

Jack’s performance was nearing its end. He’d be off stage soon. Her cue to get her shit together. The fact that he didn’t know she’d gotten that mechanic job would help her con him one last time, but the prospect of lying to him had her nauseated again. She swallowed and gritted her teeth. Time to find out how good of an actress Clementine Abernathy, con-woman and cat burglar, could be.

25

Jack’s skull pounded. His hands itched. Clementine had peeled off from Imelda, looking rattled. Now she was hunched over her phone, oblivious to his performance, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He wanted to leap off stage and ask what was worrying her. Or maybe it was his ego talking, the desire to have his girl’s attention messing with him.

He powered on, played to the audience. Kept time with the band. He flicked his hair and deepened his voice, found his rhythm. Sing. Just sing. Win this thing for Dad.

But a man’s profile slid into his vision, the tattooed creep who’d been curt with Jack at the diner and had eyed Clementine the night they’d first kissed. The lurker had seemed dodgy at Whenever Bar, nursing his beer in that dark booth, eyes constantly flicking to Clementine. He was part of the reason Jack had joined her for a drink. Jack should feel gratitude for that push, but the man wasn’t watching the stage. He was a distance from Clementine, arms crossed, eyes locked on her again.

Somehow Jack sang and performed, more by rote than anything. He’d rehearsed plenty, could sing “Burning Love” backward. The only thought looping through his mind was get to Clementine.