He didn’t look convinced. “You’re probably going to have a lot of questions.”
“I always do.”
“I’m not going to be able to answer most of them.”
“You never do.” She set down her mug and slid off the stool, still a little unsteady on her feet. “What are we doing?”
***
What they were doing, it turned out, was breaking and entering.
The house in question was a cozy colonial of whitewashed brick and stone pavers, neatly mulched gardens dotted with bushes someone had lovingly covered in burlap to ward off the frost. The driveway was empty. So, too, was the detached garage with its shuttered windows and pitched roof, empty flowerboxes prepped for spring.
“I don’t know,” Delaney said, peering up at it.
Colton slid his hand into the small of her back, sweeping her with him down the pavered walk. “Now is not the time for second thoughts.”
“I’m just not sure I’m comfortable breaking into someone’s house.”
“Why not?” They’d reached the front door and he checked the knob to find it predictably locked. “You broke into mine.”
“I already told you,” she protested, kicking at a squat stone toad on the steps, “the door was open.”
“No,” he said, and pulled a set of keys out from his pocket. “It wasn’t.”
He fitted several keys into the lock before he found one that worked. With a creak, the door swung open. Colton did a small magician’s flourish and waved her inside.
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” She dug in her heels. “You had a key all along. Whose house is this, anyway?”
“Just go inside,” he said. “Before the neighbors decide we’re being suspicious.”
In a tight, carpeted foyer, she found herself face-to-face with a vast assortment of cut-glass animals. They sat in a stacked glass case, smiling anthropomorphic glass smiles, winking in the late-morning light. She moved through the space on her toes, feeling a creep in her skin that had nothing to do with the decor. It was the smell. An antiseptic sting. A waxy candle melt.
And then, beneath, the enduring smack of something rotten.
“Whose house did you say this was?” she asked, inspecting a painting on the wall. It was a neat, pastel piece that featured three scaled nyads sunning themselves in a shallow loch.
Colton’s response came from halfway up the stairs. “I didn’t,” he said. “Quit dawdling, we’re on borrowed time.”
Upstairs, the hall was similarly carpeted, the walls done in a dark wood paneling that was several decades outdated. Colton ushered her past rooms with doors pulled shut, egging her along with a series of whispered chastisements. Behind the third door, there came a single knock. The clear scrape of fingernails dragged over wood.
Delaney drew up short. “What was that?”
Colton didn’t seem to notice. “You’re the worst thief of all time.” He prodded her in the side with a finger. “Head toward the last door on the left.”
She thought she must have misheard the giggle, low and giddy, that gurgled out into the hall behind them. The hairs rose along the back of her neck. Rounding on Colton, she whispered, “I’m never going anywhere with you again.”
“You don’t mean that. In here.”
He hurried her into a wide, well-lit office. The space was sparse, save for two prominent features. A single executive desk sat anchored before a wide bay window, empty of all but a lone Newton’s cradle. In the middle of the room, there rose a single white pedestal.
“There’s an item on the podium.” Colton hung back, hovering on the threshold. “I want you to get it.”
She frowned over at him. “And what are you going to do? Stand there like Dracula?”
“I’m not allowed in.” It was an admission, however vague. A confession, however small. Something wide-eyed and desperate clung to his features. “Delaney, please. Just get it.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’m going.” She toed her way across the floor, cringing at the groan of old hardwood. The pillar was solid oak, the top capped in a clear glass vitrine. Inside was a pillow of crushed black velvet.
