I don’t know where the safe is. Nirav does, of course, if any of this wild evening went according to plan. So does Pax. Butthey’re gone, and I was distracted—nay,distracting—pulling off a charade of a séance.
The police untie my left arm. I caress my throat, massage the skin at my wrists.
Our Stella.
She’s okay!
We love ya, girlie. But we’re glad we didn’t have to welcome you over here yet.
The police order Blanck to show them the safe. We follow him from the foyer into the parlor, with the massive two-story bookshelves. He approaches a shelf in the middle of a row and removes three books:McTeague. The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today. AndDead Souls.
The irony.
Aye, what a knob.
A safe is built into the wall behind these titles. Blanck glares over his shoulder like a hyena guarding a carcass. “Only the cops.”
The police push us back. “C’mon, folks. A little room, wouldja?”
Blanck twists the knobs on the exterior of the safe,clickclickclickclickclick. The crowd is silent, and these small clicks fill the room, intermingling with our thrumming pulses.
Didanythinggo right this evening? I can’t imagine that there’s anything of interest inside that safe—when would that have occurred around all these mishaps? The safe will be empty, and I’ll be tossed to the wolves. Convicted, perhaps. Committed, most likely. My every muscle clenches,clickclickclickclickclick. My heartbeat matches the pace.
At last he swings the door of the safe wide. I’m at the back of the crowd, but I hear the gasps as the cops pull out the contents and hold them aloft:
“It’s there! The Hope Diamond!”
“And that! That’s my pocket watch!”
“My grandmother’s brooch!”
“My emerald hairpin! How did he manage that?”
“My bracelet! Oh my!”
“I didn’t even notice my necklace was gone!”
The police excavate necklaces and earrings and wallets. Passports and pocketknives. Brooches and rings. The guests, in their drugged and disheveled state, torn and tousled and troubled, didn’t even notice their valuables were missing.
Blanck froths and roars, “I didn’t do this! I didn’t steal any of this!”
A tall, red-faced police officer with impressively large ears unclips the silver handcuffs at his belt. “Sir, I’m Sergeant Mullany. You are under arrest.”
Spirit shows me a symbol they’ve never shown before: a balanced scale, each side cradling a large pile of rice. Then, a single grain of rice is delicately placed upon one of the pans, and the scale, at long last, tips.
Rice falls like rain.
I exhale. Nothing about our plan, the plan we worked on for weeks, has gone the way we hoped. Except this. This. And it isdelicious.
I regret that I’m the only here to see Blanck grovel. Well, me and Clarice. Our eyes meet briefly. I must commit his begging, his frothing to memory, to share with my friends later.
My friends. My musketeers. My merry band of bandits.
Lord, I hope there is alaterin which I get to see them.
Sergeant Mullany slams Blanck against the bookshelf—oof!Mullany wrenches Blanck’s wrists behind his back and cuffs them tight. Blanck spits at the officer. Mullany is swift: He sticks out a leg and sweeps Blanck off his feet. Without his hands to soften the blow, Blanck smacks the hardwood floor. A tooth slices through his bottom lip and Blanck’s blood begins to spill. Spirit pulses bright, and I recognize the light as laughter.
I can’t say I hate to see that.
