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“I have to call you later, Callie.”
“Can we appreciate the fact thatIam being the voice of reason right now, and by extension how serious that makes this?”
“Duly noted. Call you later.”
“No! Eilish, don’t you fucking dare—”
Her voice cuts off abruptly as my thumb finally manages to tap the button to end the call.
“Did you want to plan your Christmas vacation and maybe do your taxes while you’re at it? Or are you ready to fucking do this?”
I glare through the blindfold in the direction of Britney’s obnoxious voice.
“I’m ready.”
“Great.”
I jolt as she grabs my wrists, pulling me out of the chair and maneuvering me forward. I hear a door opening, and then she’s pulling me through it.
“You remember how this works, right?”
I nod.
“We’re in the office. I’m going to head back to the elevators and leave. You, count to thirty before you take the blindfold off, find your object, take it, and then get out of the building without being caught. You got all that?”
“Got it.”
She snickers again, the sound drifting away from me as she steps out of the office.
“Good luck, Kildare.”
The door shuts behind me. I almost rip the blindfold off immediately, but stop myself just in time. Britney is a petty enough bitch that she’d do something like stay in the room and just make itsoundlike she left so she could catch me breaking the rules so that she could boot me.
So I wait and count in my head, my pulse thudding in my ears.
…Twenty-nine, thirty.
Swallowing, I reach up and pull off the blindfold. Even though it’s dim to the point of darkness in the office, I still blink as my eyes adjust from the total blackness of the blindfold.
Holy shit. Where am I?
First of all, the office ishuge. And gorgeously decorated, albeit in a very masculine way. High ceilings, slate stone walls with black and dark wood accents, and an enormous glass wall overlooking all of midtown Manhattan with a partial view of Central Park.
Even though whatever security system there is in here has been disabled, I still instinctively pull the hood of my sweatshirt up around my face. I walk quietly across the dark-stained hardwood floor and elegant area rugs toward the mammoth, all-black desk. Behind it, elegant built-in shelving frames a huge open space on the wall, where hangs what looks like anamazingreplica of one of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral paintings.
My eyes scan the built-in shelves, looking for family photos, diplomas, anything that will give me a hint aboutwhoI’m about to steal from. But there’s nothing.
Not a single picture. No kids’ drawings. The desk itself almost looks like it’s been staged, as if no one actually uses it. The laptop is perfectly squared. Two silver pens are completely straight and in line next to it. There’s even a bottle of still water with a crystal tumbler next to it,with a fucking paper coveron top of it, like in a hotel room.
Great, I’m stealing from a serial killer with OCD tendencies.
I prowl around the desk, repeating the clue in my head.
If you want to make an omelet…
My brows knit as I raise my gaze to the wall opposite the desk that I ignored when I walked in because I was too distracted by the view and the Monet replica. There, sitting on a shelf under a glass box, is a gorgeous, delicate, incredibly detailed, black and gold, oversized….
…you gotta break a few eggs.
