Page 55 of Five Stolen Rings

I crane my neck as I look around the room again, until I spot my red clutch on the chair next to the bedside table. I don’t even remember what’s in there besides a tampon and chapstick. I unsnap it and rifle through the contents with deft fingers.

“Ah-ha!” I have a little bitty pad of paper and—a magenta crayon?

How did a crayon get in here?

“Ugh.Fine.” I scrawl a quick note and stare at it, feeling my humiliation rise even further, but I prop it on his pillow all the same; then I turn my attention to the bedroom window.

Jack broke into Maude Ellery’s house through thewindow; I can break out of his house through one, too. I am a strong, intelligent woman who knows how to do those things. Besides, we’re on the first floor. How hard could it be?

I examine the window and the frame for a second, my hands on my hips, my brow furrowed. Then, with a quick glance over my shoulder at the closed bedroom door, I turn the window lock. It clicks into place, and I lift the bottom pane. It opens with a lurch so loud that I freeze; after a few seconds of listening, though, I don’t hear Jack, so I hurry on, shivering in the blast of wind that hits me. I open the window as wide as it will go and then step back, examining it again.

It doesn’t open very high.

But it will be fine. I can duck and squeeze. I pop out the screen next, which I do not feel bad about at all, because Jack did the same thing to Maude’s window, and I had to put it back together.

“All right,” I breathe, my gaze wandering around the room one last time to make sure I’ve got everything. I tuck my clutch tight under my arm, inhale deeply, and then begin my escape.

Right foot through the window first. I stick it out and let it dangle. The rest of my body needs to go through next; it’s a tight fit. I scrunch my torso and fold myself down as small as I can.

“Ow,” I mutter as my head hits the window frame. “If I can just—get?—”

But I freeze when I hear the sound that, more than any other sound, I desperately don’t want to hear right now: the click of a door handle.

My head swivels toward the bedroom door, or at least it tries to?—

“Ouch!” I say as it bangs once again into the window frame.

And then comes the voice I least want to hear, the one that belongs to the man I absolutely cannot face right now—incredulous but full of hidden laughter.

“What onearthdo you think you’re doing? Dining and dashing?” Slow footsteps; then he speaks again. “Oh, and look! You’ve left me a note. Written in…crayon?”

My cheeks burn, and I contemplate the possibility of just staying here forever so that I never have to look at him again.

“You look a little uncomfortable in there, Princess.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Need some help?”

Jack—

Thanks for picking me up from the café. I think I cried a lot, so sorry if I made a scene.

Also sorry I blew my nose on your shirt.

—Stella Partridge

“I guess I just have a few questions, Stella girl.” Jack’s voice is as cheerful as I’ve ever heard it, possibly in my life; the slight crinkle of paper and shuffle of footsteps tells me he’s approaching me. I try to pull my head out, but even when I manage to stick it back into the room, my body is hunched over so far that all I can really look at is the carpet.

“This note, for example,” Jack goes on, still sounding stupidly happy. He crouches down and waves my note in front of my face. “You signed it with your first and last name. Do you think I know any other Stellas? Do you think there are multiple women named Stella blowing their noses on my shirt?”

I will come to him in his sleep and stick his finger in warm water so he pees himself. I will shave his head so he wakes up bald. I will haunt him after I die.

“And what about the crayon?” he goes on. “Not that I mind, but this purplish-pink color isn’t really my favorite. Did you not have any blue? Or maybe a nice red?”

“You are dead to me.”

He huffs out a laugh that almost makes me smile in response, but I manage to hold my scowl firmly in place.

“Help me get out of here,” I say, twisting my head at an awkward angle so I can try to sit up straighter. I’m basically straddling the window sill, and my lady bits are uncomfortable.

“This window jams,” Jack says. His shirt brushes my forehead as he steps closer, and a few seconds later the window lurches further open, giving me room to unfold my body.

---