Page 14 of Five Stolen Rings

And this is how, thirty minutes later, I find myself looking at the floor in front of the window, five rolling pins lined up in a neat row. I pull out my phone and take a few pictures from different angles, because if Jack broke in and slipped and then tried to set them back up the same way, I’d probably never know. This way I can see exactly how they’re positioned now; I’ll be able to tell if they’ve been disturbed.

Then, with a satisfied nod, I make my way upstairs to find the Christmas decorations. I absolutely do not let myself wonder what Jack was hunting for as I pass Maude Ellery’s bedroom; after airing it out earlier, I closed the door, because the portrait in there is the most awkward by far. No one but Maude needs to see herself sprawled on a giant bed with strategically placed blankets.

Well—I grin to myself—MaudeandIndia, who I sent pictures to yesterday.

Because I’ve aired out every room in the house, I already know where to find the storage room. I find the Christmas decorations easily enough too, since the boxes are clearly labeled. I carry three of them downstairs, one at a time, setting them on the floor in the middle of the living room with anoomph.

After grabbing a knife from the kitchen, I make quick work of unloading all three boxes. One of them has bundles of garland and a few tangled strings of lights; I pull all ofthose out and set them aside. The second box is full of bubble-wrapped Christmas trinkets, all of which Maude probably has a preferred place for, so I’m not sure why she’s having me do this. I get them out anyway, because she’s paying me.

The last box has more strands of lights, the big, colorful ones that you never see around anymore. I look over the lot and decide to do the garland first; it takes me a stupidly long time to wrap it around the banister of the stairs, and I only have enough for one side.

I bet there’s more in the storage room, though. I hurry up to take a look.

But I’ve just hefted a box labeledGreeneryinto my arms when I hear it: a thud from downstairs, followed by a crash, and then, finally, one very loud swear word.

Jack.

I set the box of greenery down and stumble out of the storage room, pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Half past ten—really?When did it get so late?

I’m much quicker going down the steps than I was going up, and my heart has jumped into my throat again. I’m breathless by the time I pass under the branch of the stairs and into the living room—where, sure enough, I find Jack Piorra, dressed in snow-dusted black joggers and a black shirt tonight, just in the process of getting up off the floor.

“I can’t believe—” I begin, but I break off with a hiss as my bare foot finds something sharp. Too late, I realize I’ve stepped on one of the large glass lights; the shards send a hot stab of pain through my heel.

My attention redirects to Jack, though, when he speaks.

“Did you—” He’s staring down in disbelief, his eyes wide like he can’t believe anyone would be so petty. “Did you putthese here onpurpose?” He gestures to the rolling pins, now scattered on the floor.

“Yes,” I say unapologetically, trying to ignore the throb of pain in my foot. “Don’t look at me like that. I did it precisely because I figured you might come back, and if you did, I wanted to know. I can’t just sit and guard the house for the next eleven days.” Then I point at the window. “And you can leave the same way you came, please. Or I really will call the police.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t we establish that this is my stepmother’s house?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to stay calm. “But if she wanted you here, you would have a key.”

His expression hardens, but he doesn’t answer, which I take to mean I’m right.

“That’s what I thought,” I say. I point at the window. “Go. Now. Or use the front door—whatever. I don’t care. Just leave.”

That hard expression on Jack’s face morphs into a smirk. “You still think you can boss me around?” he says softly, stepping over the rolling pins. “I’m not the boy you used to play with, Princess.” He towers over me as he comes closer. “I won’t do whatever you ask just because you’re beautiful.”

Something catches in my chest, but I raise one brow at him. “I never expected that, and you know it.”

His eyes flash as he opens his mouth to speak—but he stops when his attention trails down my body and lands on my foot. His gaze jumps briefly to the broken light, and then back to my foot. He points at it. “You should do something about that.”

He’s right; I should. It hurts, the cut stinging painfully enough that I’ve shifted all my weight to my other side, andI’m kind of worried I’m going to bleed all over this fancy carpet.

“I will,” I say, my voice stiff as my migraine pulses behind my eyes. “Leave first.”

“Hmm,” he says. His gaze glitters as he folds his arms, one dark brow quirking arrogantly. “No. I don’t think I will.” Then he jerks his chin at the couch. “Go sit down.”

I fold my arms too. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

He glares at me, but I don’t budge. I just shake my head.

“Good grief, Stella,” he mutters, running his hand down his face. “Are you like this all the time? Sitdown.”

My hands tighten into fists, but I don’t uncross my arms. “You are not my parent, and you’re not my boss,” I say as he steps toward me. “So don’ttell mewhat to?—”

But I break off when he reaches for me, my voice falling away as he lifts meinto his arms,bridal style; he bends down and heaves me up, looking irritated, one arm hooking under my knees and one encircling my back. I gape up at him, lost for words, as he carries me with apparent ease over to the couch, where he drops me unceremoniously.

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