Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(63)

Suddenly, his face disappears and I start to let out a breath, but the doorknob begins to jiggle again. This time it is more forceful. Will they break in? Am I worth that? I know Veronica has a good double bolt on the door. She has some valuable paintings in here and does have a good alarm and security system. But they are FBI, and if they have probable cause they might be able to justify breaking in.

I am thinking the way my father used to talk when he got out of prison that first time. I am no better than he is. We are both common thieves. We just went about our crimes in different ways.

The doorknob stops jiggling, and I hear muffled voices on the other side of the door. Deep, determined voices. Will they approach Veronica when she comes back and demand to search the gallery?

I look around frantically. There is no other way out. A small bathroom is to my right. There is nothing on the other side of the opposite wall; the gallery is at the end of the row of storefronts. Even if I could get out, they would be waiting. There are two of them. One could be in the front, the other in the back. My idea about going through yards wouldn’t work.

I shimmy around crab-like on the floor, careful to drag the duffel bag with me, and I ease my way into the little bathroom. A stream of light is pooled on the floor, and I look up to see a window above me. I reach over and use my fingers to pull the door closed.

I should have left that night that I saw Ian for the first time at Club Soda. I should have known. I could have bought a duffel bag and brought all my money with me right then and there and disappeared onto a ferry and to the mainland. What had I been thinking? Had I truly thought I could see him and have him see me and my life would not change?

Now I am hiding, huddled in a bathroom. I am pathetic.

I look at my watch. It is well after three. Because they are watching me, I need to wait until darkness falls before I can go back to my house. I need the protection that the night will give me.

But sunset is five hours away.

The way it’s looking, I could be here that long, though.

I hear something out front. Voices. Two men, Veronica. She’s back. They’re arguing. They want to search the whole gallery.

I think about where the back door is, and I know I will not be able to escape unnoticed. I glance up again at the window above me. I am not a large person, and it is just high enough so I will struggle to climb through. But I have to try.

I stand on the toilet and push open the window, which I notice is new and does not make any noise. I give a silent thanks for that as I reach over and grab hold of the screen. With one yank, it’s inside, and I lean it against the wall next to the toilet.

The duffel bag has to go first. Even if I wanted to abandon it here, the FBI agents would find it and Veronica would be questioned at length. Maybe even charged with accessory to a crime.

More terminology I learned from my father.

I fold up the duffel as well as I can and drop it out the window. The voices are louder now. I grab hold of the windowsill and pull myself up and through. My legs flounder a little until my feet make purchase with the wall and I am soon halfway out. The ground seems farther away than it should be for an easy fall, but I have no choice. I wiggle through further and then let myself drop down.

I land with a thud on my right shoulder, then roll and get up, grabbing the duffel. I look around quickly to make sure Lucille isn’t camped out here, but see no one.

I should get back to Hydrangea House as soon as I can and as discreetly as possible, but I can’t waste any more time. I have to go to my house. If those men are here, and Frank Cooper and his minions are at the Bluffs, I have a very small window of opportunity. I say a silent farewell to Veronica as I scramble through a few back yards and zigzag my way on the small streets up to my house.





THIRTY-ONE


I come up to my house the roundabout way, down the hill behind it rather than up the hill in front. I look out toward the water and see the sunlight shimmering across the whitecaps. It’s windy, and the sea is rough. I try to imprint the image in my memory. It would be a beautiful painting, bright and blue with a shocking streak of white.

My little house sits alone, with no police car outside. I approach, glancing side to side and behind me as I do, not seeing anyone. I begin to relax a little, breathe a little easier. I hug the side of the house as I circle it, and when I get to the door, it swings open easily.

I stand in the doorway to the mudroom, my heart pounding again. The door should have been locked. But I was not the last one here, so maybe the police neglected to lock it. Would they be so careless?

I listen and hear nothing except the bugs outside. Nothing inside. Still, I wait. I don’t know how long I have been standing here when I finally decide that it’s time. If someone is this patient, then perhaps he deserves a prize.

I move through my kitchen and then into the living room. I don’t want to linger; I can’t afford to. The bedroom is only steps away, and I am struck by the bare mattress on the frame. I have not gotten new sheets, a new comforter. I have not gotten anything to replace everything that has been damaged.

The closet door is closed. I push it open and stoop down. It is dark in here, but I don’t need any light. I feel around on the floor until I touch the edge of the hiding place. With little effort, I lift up the floorboard and reach inside, the duffel bag ready to be filled.

The overhead light suddenly switches on, and I yank my hand out as if it’s on fire. I spin around and see Ian behind me. I stand up quickly and face him.