Page 49 of Under the Lies

After about two glasses in, I’m hanging upside down on my couch, reading a historical romance while the news plays in the background.

Typically, I try to avoid the news as much as possible. It’s too upsetting and depressing and spikes my anger like no other, but there’s nothing else on right now, so I left it on a local station.

I’m turning the page when something the newscaster says catches my attention. “And today marks the ten year anniversary of when the Haven Harbor National Museum of Art was robbed by the Baron just two days after the Metropolitan Museum of Art robbery, which we know was also done by the Baron because of the burning cigar left behind at both scenes. It was his calling card.” Scrambling, my body flips over to right-side up, my eyes glued to the TV. “Officials say they fear they will never find the stolen pieces.”

The Baron.

A notorious thief who is more like a myth since stories of him being around has stretched all the way back to the 1930s, which would make him older than even my granddad, who died at eighty-four.

He’s a ghost haunting the town and one of my personal obsessions. When I was in undergrad, I went as far as to write a final thesis on him for one of my art history classes. I’ve always wondered if we’ll ever know his true name.

Three sharp and fast raps on my front door pull me from my thoughts. I don’t need to see who’s on the other side to know. I recognize that knock by now.

Pan, who’s been asleep on the cushion next to me, picks up his head and hisses at the door.

I pet his head. Good kitty.

I still haven’t moved when my phone vibrates with a message.

Noah: Open the door, Sayer.

My fingers itch to text back a no, but I know that will just cause more problems for me so begrudgingly, I force myself to the door. I don’t open it, though.

“Go away!” I shout through it instead.

“Not happening, Brooks.” I can practically feel his arms crossing in stubbornness.

Standing on my tip-toes, I look at him through the peephole.

On the other side, he’s more dressed down than I’ve seen him. Noah’s wearing hunter green joggers, a black shirt, his leather jacket, and yes, his fit arms crossed tightly over his chest. My chest squeezes tight at the sight of him.

And he’s staring directly into the peephole, his blue eyes like lasers, honing on me.

“I’m not going out with you,” I say through the door. “I sent you a text.”

“Open the door.” He ignores what I said.

“No.”

“Open the door, Sayer or I’m going to force it open.”

I double-check the locks.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s locked,” he adds. “I can get in regardless.”

I believe him. Something as insignificant as a lock wouldn’t keep Noah from getting what he wants.

With a sigh, I open the door.

“Fancy seeing you here.” I force a smile.

Noah takes in my penguin onesie. He doesn’t look amused. “You going to invite me in?”

I don’t want to, but I also don’t want my nosey neighbors eavesdropping.

The door opens wider and Noah walks in, brushing by me as he heads into the living room.

Shutting the door, I rest my head against the cool metal.

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