Page 30 of 3rd Tango
The more he talks, the more my stomach cramps. I’m so not ready for this.
I pull my own cap on and offer a salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Don’t take the painting. Just snap photos. Get in and get out. They won’t even know you were there.”
Charlie muscles the side door of my ancient van open and hops out. “That’s the plan. Let’s go, Meg.”
“I’ll pretend the engine is dead or something,” Matt says. “Keep your phones handy. If there’s any heat, I’ll text.”
We move away, keeping closer to the homes and away from the street lights. Humidity thickens the night air and clogs my lungs. I draw a few deep breaths, but it all feels ominous to me. Like the heat and quiet are warning us to stay away. To run.
Then again, I’m a wuss and more than likely freaking myself out.
Gayle’s house is the second in from the corner so we hook a right and cut through his neighbor’s yard. The area is gleefully dark and unfenced, allowing us to move quickly to the back door of the garage.
Charlie slides two pairs of gloves from her lightweight shoulder pack and hands one over. Now we’re getting serious. Next, she digs out a penlight and shines it on the doorknob.
“No deadbolt,” she whispers. “Easy.”
My sister, the cat burglar. Go figure. I’m equal parts horrified and wildly impressed she can be so calm when we’re about to bust open a lock.
She points at the penlight, then to the knob, letting me know what she wants me to do. We’re actually doing this. Now that we’re here, I’m starting to chicken out.
Worse, my pulse is racing, my heart banging against my chest so hard it’s all I can focus on.
Stop.
If I don’t, my nerves will take over and I’ll be assailed by a panic attack that’ll blow this whole thing. These are not uncommon for me. Thus, the pot brownies. Since I’ve started my little weed regimen, I’ve managed to keep them limited to one every few months.
Or in times of high stress.
Not that a B and E with my sister is stressful or anything. And, oh my God, the clunk of a jail cell closing fills my head.
Sensing my hesitation, Charlie looks at me, then gets right next to my ear. “You’re fine. Take a breath and focus on my voice. We’ll be out of here in two minutes. I promise. All I need is for you to hold the light. Now, don’t fuck this up.”
My sister. The Queen of Sensitivity.
But she knows me well enough to know that’s exactly what I needed to snap my mind to attention.
I draw a deep breath, snatch it from her and aim it at the doorknob while I check our surroundings. Everything is still dark. Halfway down the road, a small, second floor window—probably a bathroom—is illuminated.
Nothing I can do except pray they don’t look out and see an odd light in Gayle’s yard.
When it goes dark again, I let out a long breath and return my focus to Charlie who is holding a small leather pouch.
She flips it open, grabbing what looks like some kind of metal tool and a pick before shoving the pouch in her pack again.
My continued amazement at my sister’s lock picking skills expands as she inserts the tool into the keyhole, maneuvers it and turns it clockwise then counterclockwise. Still holding the wrench thingy, she guides the pick into the lock, then repeats the process several times until…boom…she turns the knob and we’re in.
Just that fast. Wow.
I blink twice and my pulse kicks again, but it’s not panic this time.
Holy crap. My sister is good. I shove around Charlie, keeping the penlight pointed downward so I don’t trip on anything. Once I reach the rack of paintings on the far wall, I clasp the penlight between my teeth and force myself not to think about all the places that sucker may have been and the germs that come with it.
Then Charlie is next to me, removing it and pointing it at the line of canvases.
Focus, focus, focus.
