THIRTY-NINE
Lucy
I don’t think I’m being dramatic when I say my heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my ribcage. I step into the elevator, crammed with oblivious people headed to meetings, or coffee, or other mundane tasks. Not breaking into the company co-founder’s car.
The ride down drags on for an eternity, people shuffling on and off at a glacial pace. I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself from shoving them out of the elevator just to speed things along.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
The stolen keys burn a hole in my hand. How I managed to multi-task and get them from his back pocket was nothing short of a miracle. How can I return them undetected? What if he already knows? What if he’s connected the dots, my seduction, the theft? Could the letter hold something so horrifying, I’ll never be able to face him again? Or even worse—what if he wants me whacked? Okay, a bit extreme, but he could definitely fire me.
Stop it. You’re spiraling.
The doors creak open at long last and I step out, feigning calm.
Except for one man, the garage is deserted. I saunter to a random car, acting out the charade of searching for non-existent keys in my bag. Just another woman going about her day, nothing suspicious here.
Come on, buddy, move it! Just get in your car and leave already!
At last, the man departs. The electronic doors lift, releasing a flood of blinding sunlight.
I brace myself, my breathing shaky as I inch toward the executive bay on unsteady legs. The gleaming collection of luxury toys—Rolls-Royces, Lamborghinis, Ferraris—seems to watch me with accusatory headlights.
There’s a security guard at the entrance to the garage, not to mention the cameras that must be trained on this million-dollar fleet of automobiles. If anyone spots me on this bay, they’ll know for sure I’m up to no good.
Crouching, I dash between the cars like I’m in a Quentin Tarantino movie until I reach JP’s Aston Martin. The guard can probably hear my thundering pulse by now. More likely than not, I’ll vomit or lose control of my bladder before this heist even begins.
The Aston Martin chirps open, deafeningly loud.
I gently tug the passenger door and slide inside. I’ve never been so nervous in my life. My hands shake violently as I pop the glove box. What if it’s not even here? It was weeks ago that I saw it.
The interior smells of leather and JP, a scent that sends a jolt of adrenaline racing through me. The glove compartment is a jumble of papers, sunglasses, tissues, and there—the edge of a pale blue envelope, my envelope. My hands shake as I reach for it, my stomach clenching in anticipation.
My heart thuds aggressively as I examine the name JP Wolfe, scrawled in my own handwriting. Why hadn’t I recognized it as my handwriting before? I have no idea what awaits inside or why JP hid it from me.
A rap at the window makes me yelp.
Shit. It’s Logan, the security guard. The one I didn’t recognize on my first day back to work.
He peers in, motioning for me to step out.
I step out slowly, buying myself time to think. I paste a beaming smile on my face, a desperate attempt to mask the terror coursing through me. “Hi!”
“Everything okay, Lucy? Mr. Wolfe send you down here?” His brow furrows.
My smile wavers as I swallow back my fear. “Yes, absolutely! I just needed to grab something from his car.”
He nods but his eyes stay fixed on me. He’s not buying it. My poor poker face probably screams of guilt. Or nausea.
With an exaggerated show of nonchalance, I close the door and press the fob button to lock it. “Have to run. Meeting to attend.”
Logan remains unmoved. “No problem, Lucy. But I’ll need to confirm with Mr. Wolfe. It’s standard procedure.” He brings out his phone.
I barely keep my voice steady. “Of course! I’m in a hurry, though. Here, you can have the keys.” I practically throw them at him. “Gotta run!”
And I do. Without waiting for his response, I break into a run, letter clenched in my death grip. If I’m trying to squash Logan’s doubts, I’m not doing a very good job.
Where do I go now? I can’t possibly read this at my desk. I take the stairs up to reception, swallowing air in hyperventilating gasps.
