Page 48 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Any snow, man?

A few inches.

I bolt upright before his next text comes through.

On the ground, man.

[Photo of snow]

Got you good, didn’t I?

My heart thumping in my ears, I write back:

You’re a jackass.

Glad you noticed.

He’s down for the count. Retired. I heard from a friend he just bought a property in the Caribbean. We’re keeping an eye, though.

I don’t forget the services of a friend.

Relief rolls over me. In the back of my mind, I’ve been worried Roark might still have some bite. I’ve also been worried about him.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. I don’t like my old boss. He’s a piece of shit who’s used me and my brother since we were kids. He’s a bad man who’s taken his fortune from other people and paid the people he employs peanuts. But I used to look up to him and think of him as a father—the only parent I ever had. So a part of me wants him to sit down for the count, because I don’t want Javier or anyone else to hurt him.

I’m glad.

I’m going into business for myself, Ryan.

I could use a guy with your talents, not gonna lie, but I’m not gonna ask.

He’s not talking about my ability in the kitchen. He’s referring to the only real talent I have—for picking locks and cracking safes.

I’ve only heard back from two of the dozens of places I’ve applied to so far—the colonial job, which was a big fat no, for previously discussed reasons, and a gig I’m interviewing for tomorrow. But it doesn’t matter. Being here, with these people, I’ve started to feel like I can be a person of value. I also know my relationship with Jake will never improve unless I’m out of that life. So the answer to Javier’s implied question can only be no.

Thanks, man. I wish you nothing but the best.

I sit back, alternating between the high of remembering Anabelle eating that candy cane and the low of Javier hinting he’d like to hire me. Part of me still thinks breaking things will be the only thing I’m ever good at.

I’ve been sipping my whiskey for long enough to get a low, pleasant buzz when a young, out-of-shape guy wearing a fuzzy blue coat comes in from the front room. He has curly black hair,a five o’clock shadow that probably sets in ten minutes after he shaves, and big, dark brown eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Is this some other sort of inspector who didn’t bother to knock? A spy sent by Weston?

I sit up so abruptly I drop the whiskey.

“Oh fu—” I try to correct myself midcourse, but I can’t bring myself to sayfudge, so I settle for not finishing the thought. It amuses me to realize I’ve done exactly what Anabelle did earlier this week, only the whiskey wound up on the floor instead of on my shirt. I grab an old-looking dish towel displayed on the credenza—Santa, baking cookies—to mop up the mess, but the stranger gasps.

“No! Drop that towel!” the guy says, waving his hands and taking several steps toward me. He’s a good four inches shorter than me, thick but not muscular, but I get the feeling that if I don’t do exactly what he says, he’s going to come at me.

I’m not a person to shy away from a fight—even a fight I don’t understand—but I told Anabelle I’d hold down the fort, and I have a feeling violence wasn’t what she had in mind. So I drop the towel.

The guy in the coat stops short and takes a good look at me, his gaze lingering on my arms. His eyes go wide with alarm, and he pivots as if he’s going to walk right back out of the room, the building, and maybe the whole town.

“Wait,” I call out.

He turns and lifts his damn hands, as if I’m a cop who just asked him to put them over his head. “I’m sorry, man,” he says, stumbling over his own words. “But that’s a vintage Christmas tea towel. Anabelle found it at a tag sale, but it’s worth at least three hundred bucks. You shouldn’t be mopping up spills with it.”

I’m tempted to ask him what I should be doing with a tea towel if not mopping up spills, especially a vintage tea towel that’s hanging on a credenza, but he seems scared—whether of me or the possibility that I might ignore him and mop up bottom-shelf cinnamon whiskey with the tea towel, I couldn’t say.

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