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And she hangs up. Jesus fucking wept, this woman’s like Cat on fucking crack. If she wasn’t annoying the absolute living shit out of me, I’d want to meet her. See who gave Magdalena a run for the stolen jewels in the attitude department.
Though my cat has more nuance than the ballsy woman who hung up. Even when she wanted to spit fire, a big part of Magdalena’s draw is her nuance, her layers.
I’m about to call back, see if the lady’s calmed at all, when we pull up.
A woman in a cashmere coat stands by the curb, gaze darting about. Fucking real estate people.
“Belinda?”
“This is highly irregular,” the estate agent whose life I can make hell says. “Ms. Esterhazy owns the apartment and a jewelry store a few blocks away and—”
“Consider your payment for helping doubled.” I hold out my hand.
She puts the keys into it. “And if someone asks—”
“I’m looking to buy the penthouse.”
There’s no penthouse, and I just walk past her and use the keys to let myself into the building.
And then the top floor apartment. I open the door and lock it behind me.
Esterhazy…oh, shit, is that who answered the phone? A friend who owns a jewelry store? She’s got to be theprofessionalwoman I spoke to on the phone. Her partner in crime.
It makes sense.
I wander around the apartment, but there’s no sign of Magdalena. This place is like mine in Millionaire’s Way. A stop over, a place to lay low. And it’s going to be where she’ll come when she’s being used like she is, or if she’s on a job.
The apartment has clothes, food in the fridge, and a bathroom with a free-standing tub. I go into the living room and sit in the gray of the morning, answering emails on my phone.
Everything in me suddenly slows down, and I look up at the door.
I know she’s there, behind it, about to come in.
I can fucking feel her.
Something scrapes in the lock.
FIFTEEN
MAGDALENA
Ipush and turn the makeshift picks in the lock, pausing. Exhaustion sits heavy like a haze over me as I stagger up the steps to the top floor. I’m not far from the diamond district. The place is the one I use when working or need to lay low, and right now?
I need to lay low.
Normally, I can take those stairs at a run.
My head hits the wood of the door, something thick and electric in the air, stopping me from opening it, stopping me from making the last move with the lock and stepping in.
Exhaustion.
That’s all.
Muscles ache and each step is difficult, and all I want to do is pass out and sleep for about a week. My head pounds and that buzzing of a hangover that comes from bad decisions and no sleep swirls through me.
Jac got me a car, but I called a cab. For a moment I did think about heading home—to my real home, because I doubt either of them have that address—but it’s a bullshit, rookie move going there. Everything I need’s here, at the diamond district apartment.
Maybe I’ve led Jac here, maybe he doesn’t give a shit. My money’s on the latter, but with both him and Hendrick using me as some kind of plaything, I’m not helping them out in giving them more details of my life.
