Page 169 of Brazen Mistakes

“Wait, you stole them?”

“Last night. What do you think?”

The panic licks up the inside of my ribcage, making me itchy. “That’s what you were doing last night? I mean, they’re gorgeous, but I don’t think I should wear hot jewels out the day after you stole them. Isn’t that, like, criminal mistake number one?”

RJ finally comes down the stairs, one finger brushing an earring, making it swing. “You’ll be fine. The guy is a miserly, secretive collector, he won’t be there, and he didn’t report it to the police.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Trips steps over, snatching the box from Walker and jamming it into a bag at his feet. “Because he’s been collecting illegally acquired Nazi shit for decades, so he can’t really claim them as his own. Don’t get attached. We’re looking for the rightful owners.”

I glance down at the bracelet, horrified. “Now I really don’t think I should wear these.”

“Don’t break it, don’t lose it, and it’ll be fine. We’re just taking them for a test run before we send them on their way. And with the workload RJ has, it might be months before we find the families they belong to,” Jansen says, his fingers brushing along my very bare spine.

“I don’t know shit about historical documents. It might be longer than months,” RJ adds. “But we’ll do the best we can. So, for now, use them, keep them safe, and know in the end, this theft isn’t totally selfish.”

Trips zips up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, his face grim. “We’re ready.”

The mood set, I nod at him, understanding that from here on out, I’m playing a role. Sensing the change, Walker drapes my designer coat over my shoulders.

“Where’s my stuff?” I ask, knowing that I’ve had basically zero say in what was packed for this event. Even the underwear was selected by Summer.

Trips tugs at the collar of what I’m just now realizing is a wool coat worth thousands of dollars. “We forgot to get you luggage, so we’re sharing. Apparently, we’re pretending welivelivetogether.”

If this weren’t so serious, I’d laugh at how uncomfortable Trips looks at that idea. A twinge of sadness hits me in the chest, but I swallow past it. “It’s time, then?”

He nods, slipping between Jansen and Walker to take my arm, wrapping my hand around to rest on his forearm. I glance back, needing one last look at the network of support I’ve built for myself, and Jansen throws me a thumbs-up, while Walker and RJ nod, telling me without words to trust Trips.

This is his world.

I’m the interloper.

The drive is silent, the snow still falling, glittering under the streetlights. Trips is stuck in a cycle of gripping the steering wheel like he wants to strangle it, going to run his hands through his hair, then remembering his hair is styled, and dropping them back to the wheel.

Chipper pop music vibrates in the anxiety, the juxtaposition making me almost hysterical before we even get there. Scared that I won’t be able to keep myself from babbling inanities, I watch mile after mile pass by, things looking vaguely familiar as I realize we’re near the area Jansen and I have been stealing cars.

Stealing from Trips’ neighbors.

As we wind down a road with progressively larger and larger houses, I swallow down my fear. “Any last-minute advice?”

Even in the half dark, I can see Trips’ jaw clench even tighter as he struggles to speak. “When in doubt, say nothing. And if I tell you to do something, please don’t fucking fight with me.”

“Got it. Seen but not heard and obedient. Like a child with shitty parents.”

“Not like a kid, Clara. Like a queen who doesn’t need to tell anyone what the fuck she’s doing. And obedient, so I can keep you safe. Not to boss you around.”

“You sure about that?” I joke, trying to make things feel more normal.

He doesn’t rise to my teasing, instead stopping at a gated drive, an attendant waiting in a small building coming out to greet us. His coat is open, the hint of guns barely visible underneath, but his gloved hands are ready with a clipboard. My breath stalls, but when the man sees Trips, the gate immediately opens, and we pull onto a winding, wooded pathway.

As the driveway goes on and on, my breath gets shallower. “Trips? I know you’re rich and all, but please tell me that was just the gate to your neighborhood.”

He snorts. “Nope.”

The drive winds some more, and the house still isn’t in sight. “So you live on a point in the lake, right? Or a really, really long isthmus?”

“Wrong again. We are on the lake, but the estate is about forty acres. And the main house is by the lake, not the road.”

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