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“Onwards then, my friend!”

We repeat the process in the next bedroom. Bathroom. Another bedroom. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. And then we come to the last bedroom in the hall . . .

“That’s under construction, we can’t go in there.” Jerry’s puppy dog energy goes haywire, turns slightly naughty-pup. Like he got caught pissing on the carpet.

He shifts foot to foot, tucks his hands behind his back. Eyes dart sideways, down. Up. “I don’t have keys, we aren’t allowed. An alarm will go off.”

A quick glance toward the top of the door tells me that at least one of his excuses is accurate—there’s a legit alarm wired around the doorway, which will, in fact, go off should my sneaky thief’s fingers get all breaky-breaky on that lock.

Fascinating. Who in the fuck wires a spare bedroom for security?

Whatcha hidin’, Morton?

I bet Jerry knows what’s in there, or at last has some inkling. “How long’s it been under construction?”

He rocks back and forth on his heels. “Um . . . a while?”

He doesn’t know. Which probably means as long as he can remember. And since he literally grew up here, could that mean since Morton’s parents? Shit, I wonder if Jerry’s ever even been in there. Whatever they’re hiding, that makes this room a point of interest on Nick’s Potential Target List.

Consider me curious as hell but not ready to press. Jerry’s serious about his job, and I gotta respect that if I want to keep his trust.

So I let it go. Pretend to. “Well, should we check the second floor, then?”

He visibly deflates with relief and a gush of chocolate-scented air. Then goes right back into bouncing puppy mode. “There’s a quilting room!”

We take the stairs this time—a rear staircase, because these folks are so fancy, they have a big wide marble one at the front of the house and a normal-people stompy-stompy at the back—down to the second-floor landing.

The ceiling soars a good ten feet overhead, and the carpeting under my work boots is creamy beige and thick enough to feel like a cloud beneath my soles. White wainscoting climbs the powder-blue walls to chair-rail height, and curlicued crown molding accents the edges around the soft white ceiling. Even the fucking in-between spaces in this place are nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived, shit.

“What does the Morton family do exactly?” I muse, keeping my voice distantly curious, “To be so wealthy?”

“Have you heard of Morton Boats?” Jerry takes the lead down the hall. “They build sailboats. Custom, you know, like to people’s designs. Like a house.”

Ahh, rich people catering to rich people. Nice. I guess that is where the money would be lurking, eh?

Don’t explain what a small-time jewelry store heister from the Big Apple might be after; I doubt Nick’s commandeering a cruiser. Or even the keys to one.

So, I return my attention to the house. Which, in case I haven’t yet mentioned, is pretty fucking fantastic.

They do, in fact, have a quilting room. And a map room. Literally just a room full of maps. Which is freaking cool, and makes sense for a sailboat-building empire. Like, some of these are old or obscure as fuck, like the one detailing a lost island that probably gives explorers wet dreams. There’s even a sort of treasure map that might’ve tempted my sticky fingers, were I a twinge more piratey and hadn’t had ill-fated dealings with magical maps—and very shadowy men—in the past.

Pivot, Jax.

I drift down the hall toward a grandiose set of mahogany double-doors—only to find my way suddenly barred by a massive body.

“No,” Jerry says. Stern, but not annoyed. More like sorta dutiful. “Not there. No key, not allowed.”

Welp, we’ve been down this road before.

“But what if there are termites?” I ask, making my eyes as wide and round as they’ll go. I step closer, shoulders relaxed, and lean toward the jamb. “Termites won’t know if the room is off limits, you know?”

Jerry slides sideways another few inches, barring me and my curious eyeballs from the door. “No key.”

“And there’s an alarm?”

“Yes.”

“Ah well. Guess we hope for the best.” I’ve seen enough—that little hairline seam along the frame? Magnetic strike plate. Electromagnetic mag lock. A.k.a high-end fancy tech. But nothing a good thief and lockpick can’t handle.