Perfect Scoundrels (Heist Society #3)(47)

But Kat was already shaking her head and pushing away, saying, “Sorry, Nat. I’ve got to…go.”

Kat wheeled, searching the crowd for Gabrielle. Then her gaze drifted to the boy who was already halfway down the sweeping stairs, in something between a walk and a jog, looking like he was a top hat away from giving Fred Astaire a run for his money.

“Oh, Kat!” Hale’s mother cried out. “Kat, darling, come over here. There are some people I’d love for you to—”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to…” But Kat couldn’t finish. She was too busy pushing through the crowd, almost willing Hale to catch her eye, give a wink, a smile. She thought that surely he would find some way to see her—just her. But he didn’t.

“Where is he going?” Kat asked when she finally reached Gabrielle.

“I don’t know,” Gabrielle said. “Ooh. Shrimp.” She reached for the tray of a passing waiter, but Kat caught her arm.

“Gabrielle, Hale’s not right. We’ve got to stop him. I think he might be…”

But then Hale stumbled, climbing up onto the stage that held the prototype, and Gabrielle finished for her.

“Drunk.”

The lights went out. A spotlight shone on the stage and the boy the family knew as Scooter. A hush fell over the crowd as he took up the microphone and began to speak.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming. It’s a very special night, and we’re all here to celebrate a very special woman. My grandmother.” Hale pointed to the oil portrait that had been moved from the upstairs corridor and placed at the corner of the stage. A polite smattering of applause went through the crowd.

Kat couldn’t move. A dozen different scenarios played out in her mind, but Hale was like a runaway train, and she had no idea how to find the brakes.

“My grandmother loved Genesis!” Hale threw up his hands as if expecting the well-heeled crowd to erupt into thunderous applause. “They wanted me to tell you all about Genesis. It’s the future of the company, they say. It. And me. Some future, huh?” Hale said, and the forced chuckles morphed into sighs of disbelief. “I’m glad she’s dead. I’m glad she’s not here to see this.”

“Kat,” Gabrielle whispered, “do we stop him? Kat, what do we do?”

But Kat didn’t know. She hadn’t planned for this scenario, and a part of her was too busy cursing herself for that to do anything else. “He wasn’t ready,” she mumbled. “He wasn’t—”

“Scooter.” Hale’s father stepped into the spotlight and reached for his son’s arm. “Scooter, that’s enough.”

“My name’s not Scooter!” Hale yelled, revolting and pulling away. “My name is…” But he trailed off, and Kat could have sworn she finally caught his gaze. “I guess it doesn’t matter what you call me. It’s never mattered. I’m a HALE.”

More than before, he slurred his words.

“I’m the Hale,” he went on. “Or so they tell me. The great hope—the heir apparent. The—”

“I’m sorry, young man, but I’m going to have to disagree with that.”

An older man was climbing onto the stage, stepping into the light. He didn’t look like Hale or his father. The overcoat was a little too out of date. He leaned too heavily on his cane, as if it weren’t a mere walking stick but a crutch with actual purpose. But when he spoke, there was no mistaking he was an important man, a formidable figure.

A member of the family.

“Hello, Junior,” he said to Hale’s father. “Don’t you have a hug for your favorite uncle?”





The man on the stage had wild white hair and wore a secondhand suit. The cane was rough and wooden, and his tie hadn’t been in style for thirty years. He was a relic. A drifter. But there was something about him—a power so strong and ancient that it was almost like the man had been forged out of cast iron. He was an unmovable force, and it would take more than a scene to make him leave.

“Well, I was told this was where the party was!” he yelled at the crowd and continued across the stage—past Hale and his father, to the portrait of the woman of the hour.

Even knowing what she knew, Kat had a hard time seeing her uncle in the man at the front of the room. Everything was different. He leaned heavily on his cane and took slow, careful steps until he finally reached the portrait. Then he bent down and brushed a kiss across Hale’s grandmother’s painted cheek.

“I told you I’d come home, Hazel,” he told the painting. “I’m just a little late.”

He reached up as if to trace a finger against the face on the portrait, but Hale’s father caught his hand.

“Don’t touch that,” Senior spat.

“Well, it doesn’t compare to the original, but it will do.”

“You knew her?” Hale’s father asked.

Eddie smiled. “Of course I knew her. She was married to my brother.”

“He’s gonna blow it,” Kat said.

“He’s fine,” Gabrielle assured her.

“He’s not ready,” Kat said.

“He was born ready,” Gabrielle retorted.

“He’s not—”