Page 91 of Brazen Criminals

Would I still cower?

The rain fades to a drizzle, a puddle from my clothes collecting around me under the protection of the awning, and I stare up at his window, me stalking him for once.

I can see him. I can watch him. There’s no sign of Emma, and I’ll know when he leaves.

I’m in control.

Like a flywheel catching, a crack and tug yanks something inside of me, rearranging my insides.

I know one thing: I wouldn’t cower. Not anymore.

I can’t be everything for everyone else. I can’t be perfect. And I can’t expect everyone else to push me and prod me into whatever mold I might fit into.

It’s time for me to choose who I want me to be.

I could be the perfect girl—straight A’s, pretty, punctual.

Is that who I want to be? The girl no one remembers, covered in small mirrors, reflecting back whatever she thinks everyone else wants from her? Who is that girl? Is she me?

A blossom of color flares within me—the joyful terror of breaking into the Witch’s Hat with Jansen, the confused pride over Walker’s blackmailing skills, the blind trust in RJ with my phone, with keeping me safe. And the shared rage with Trips at Bryce for hurting me, for scaring me.

These feelings are new, but they’re real. They’re gold and purple, blue and blood-red; my old feelings were nothing but faded gray tinged with regret and shame.

Am I gray? Or is there more hiding inside me, a tapestry of brilliant colors on one side with a sloppy rainbow of knots on the other?

The last of the rain fades to a mist, the sky lightening to where I can’t see into the building across the street anymore, Bryce’s apartment fading as the light rushes back into the world.

I shiver one last time.

I’m done waiting and worrying. I might not be perfect, but I don’t need to be. Not to fix this.

No, first I need to gather my team. I know what needs to happen, and together, we’re going to bring the color back.

Fuck perfection.

It’s going to take a couple of criminals to stitch this fucking tapestry into a blood-red masterpiece. And I’m using my scythe for a needle.

Chapter 42

Jansen

Thethunderstormcutintothe tailgating for today’s game, but it worked in my favor, as most of the fans stayed away as long as possible, flooding the gates the second the rain stopped. I keep my eyes peeled, looking for targets that can afford a lift, men with graying hair and younger women on their arms, talking too loudly to their mirror-image friends.

Every time I lift a wallet and find tickets to suites or one of the luxury clubs in the stadium, I mentally high-five myself.

These old guys like their paper, and it’s nice to know I still have an eye for rich marks. I only take the cash, tossing the wallets with credit cards into trash cans—RJ can deal with stolen credit cards if he wants, but it’s a risky lift out here in the open.

Each bump and lift is a step in my dance, my body and mind in sync for once, one not fighting the other, both working together to fill my pockets with cash. I’m lifting a wallet from inside yet another burgundy jacket, a jovial drunk man patting my back while roaring about college kids not being able to hold their liquor like they used to, fake stumbling away, when I plow straight into Clara.

She’s absolutely drenched—her hair plastered to her face. “Clara, why were you out in the storm?” I ask.

Her jaw is tight, and her eyes shine with something I realize I haven’t seen in her before. It’s the face Walker makes when he’s in the zone on a reproduction, when RJ has almost found a bit of code that he can manipulate, when Trips holds piles of cash. She has a purpose.

She’s not afraid or uncertain, waiting for me to pull her along on some adventure.

“Jansen, you got a minute?” she asks, her head tilted as she eyes the crowd.

I nod.

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