And his supposedly equally unhinged fiancée, who you’ve already seen shoot a man, is cutting people and covered in blood? Yeah.
I’m giving her whatever space she feels she needs. Even if I miss our sporadic chats.
Trips’ dad has said nothing about what went down at the pool. He didn’t lock Trips or me up, so I guess everything that happened got put under the umbrella of self-defense. But every guard in a sling, cast, or walking boot I come across is an obvious reminder of how violent that night became.
One guard had our backs, though. Even after the chaos.
I found our coats laid across my bed when I came back from breakfast the next morning, the stiff weight of them telling me the papers were still stitched in there. After I hung them in the closet, I’d spent the next two days trying to figure out how to get the art somewhere that would implicate Trips’ father in forgery.
It’s not a lie. It’s an exaggeration of the truth.
There was the button camera tucked into my seam to worry about as well.
After a few days of mulling it over, I have a hazy plan. It’s not my best. And when I whisper it to Trips late that night, after we’d done exactly what was required of us, his heartthundering under my fingers, he’s about as pleased with it as I thought he would be.
But he doesn’t have any better ideas.
And when I lay it out to Falk on our run the next day, he’s just as incredulous.
“You know there are cameras in there.”
“Do you know where they are?” I ask, my breath a white cloud that scatters as I run through it.
He jogs for a bit, the snow slushy underfoot. “Yeah. It’s pretty easy to tell where they’re placed from the control room. And I still have access to that room. I haven’t fucked up that badly. Not yet, at least.”
“Can you stand in their way? You’ve got Trips to use as a block as well.”
We’re most of the way done with our circuit before he answers. “Yeah. We can make this work. But if you fuck this up, we’re all going down. Whatever plan you have, it dies if this doesn’t go right.”
“Trust me, I know.”
On Wednesday, armed in the most casual clothes I have under my thick wool coat, Trips dressed the same, we make our way to the office. His father just got home from work, and if he follows his usual schedule, he’ll be changing into his ‘home clothes’ before working on briefs in his office while staring longingly at a glass of scotch.
Falk calls for back-up as I break into the office, picking the lock fast enough to mistake for having a key. Falk’s angry tones chase us into the space, and he pushes Trips, his frustration sounding real enough to my ears as Trips stands there like he owns the room and everything in it.
Falk then paces a few feet away from Trips, chewing us out for going wherever we want without concern. Meanwhile, I tuck myself behind the heavy wooden desk, the ream of paper pressed against my stomach. I’d freed them from the lining while I was deep in the recesses of the closet, pretending to struggle picking out my clothes for the day. I made a sling from a fancy silk scarf I have no plan of ever wearing and tucked the art in that, my coat covering up the whole mess. Unbuttoning quickly, I pull them out, taking barely a moment to admire the amazing work Walker did, missing him so strongly my breath catches, before tucking them under the pile of old photo albums I saw when Trips’ father slammed my head into the desk. It’s the only section of the room that isn’t immaculately straightened, and the only place I can leave the papers where they won’t look out of place.
Once again, it’s not perfect, but it’s the best I’ve got with all the restrictions we have on us.
I take two more steps and wedge the camera on a belly-height shelf between a heavy law tome and the wall of the bookcase, hoping it’s lined up right, but having no way to check.
Last, I grab one of the fancy red pens on the desk that Trips promises are special order, jamming it into my pocket.
Heavy feet stride down the hallway, and thinking quickly, I snatch up the top album, leaning against the desk with it open on my lap, my heart pounding loudly even though I’ve hardly moved.
Trips’ father slams into the room, and because I want to look unbothered, like someone who’s happy pushing hisbuttons instead of terrified, I stare at the random page that’s open before me.
The photo is of a woman with an athletic build, a baby strapped to her chest as she laughs. The shot is blurry, and taken from below, but I immediately know two things about this photo.
The first is that the face is one I’ve seen before, swathed in curling smoke, inked permanently above Trips’ heart. It’s a photo of his mother, and the tiny blob of a baby is him. Cared for. Loved. Surrounded by joy.
If that weren’t enough to break my heart, the angle and blurriness are familiar from the many times I’ve lent my phone to a kid I nannied. A child took this photo. Trevor took this photo.
At one point, that monster was a part of this picture, capturing joy and hope and love with the sincerity of a child.
A third thing dawns on me as Trips’ dad whispers angry words at the guard I now know has our backs, a scant few feet between them.
This album is within reach of the desk, messy, the pages worn from being fingered through.
