Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(38)
I can’t.
Chapter Seventeen
February 24th,
If I ever have kids, I will never get them involved in this life. I don’t think I’ll ever have kids, but if I did one day, I would do everything I could to protect them. And if I fall in love and get married, I don’t want to lose my husband, have my kids lose their father the way I lost my father. Or have them lose their mother, lose me.
I know it’s kind of normal for parents to teach their kids a trade, to pass down the family business from generation to generation, but jewel thievery isn’t exactly a point of pride for me. It’s not something I’m going to go around telling everyone: “Oh yes, my grandfather was a master thief; I come from a long line of burglars and thieves.”
Even though I do.
I’ve learned clever ways to avoid the truth when people ask me what my mom does for a living.
She’s in international trade.
She deals in antiquities.
She manages assets.
Not: she steals stuff.
I mean, I guess she made sure I was well rounded. As far as criminals go. Between the gymnastics and the martial arts classes, I’m a pretty stellar stealer, if I do say so myself. The ballet and hip-hop lessons were my idea. Mom wanted me to play an instrument, but I sucked at the flute, and the piano, and the oboe. Then I gave up. Dance stuck, though.
I guess that’s one thing I would do the same as my mom, make sure my kids were enriched by some activity or lesson outside of school, but I’d let them choose. And they would be able to choose, because gymnastics and martial arts wouldn’t be a requirement to stay alive and out of jail for them.
But I’ll probably never have kids. Because I don’t know how to escape this life.
A knock at the front door jars me out of my pity party. I jump off the seat in my haste to get to the front hall. Will must have changed his mind about leaving. My heart leaps at the thought. I skid in bare feet across the wood floor and only just stop myself from running into the wall.
No more than a minute has passed since the knock, but the entire hall is empty. Whoever knocked must have held the elevator open while he did so in order to disappear so quickly. I shake my head in confusion, but before I close the door, my gaze hitches on a large envelope on my welcome mat. My name is scrawled across it in sloppy black letters.
I move almost in slow motion when I bend to pick up the envelope, and I hesitate with my hand over it. Nobody knows I live here except Will, and unless he carries a stash of envelopes and permanent markers around, this couldn’t be from him. Finally, I work up the nerve to grab it and lurch back inside my apartment. I scramble to close the door and lock it. Then, I tear at the pronged clasp, suddenly not willing to waste another moment getting to the contents.
The package slips through my fingers, and a handful of pictures slides out facedown, fanning across the floor in front of me. My stomach flips, and my nerves pull tight with anxious energy. A thousand possibilities flash through my brain in the time it takes me to bend down and collect the scattered photos. I take a deep breath and flip the stack face up.
Will.
And me. They’re pictures of us. Someone’s been surveilling us, surveilling me.
After the initial shock wears off, I flip through the stack, taking in images of us walking home from school, sitting together at lunch. Dancing together at Club Grade. Someone’s been watching me long enough to catch the beginnings of what might have been my first real relationship on camera. And to use it against me, I realize as I flip to the last picture. It’s of Will by himself, waiting for me at the street corner where we meet up before school. A message is written over his chest in bold red letters: Check your messages.
My breaths come in sharp, panicked inhales and leave me in heavy bursts as I try to remember where I left my phone. I race for the living room coffee table and collect it as quickly as I can. The screen lights up when I touch it, and a quick vibration heralds the arrival of a new text message from a number I don’t recognize. I almost don’t want to open it, but I do.
It’s confirmation of my fears: a picture of Will, gagged, blindfolded, and tied to a wooden chair in an empty room. Even around the gag, it’s obvious his lip is split, and an angry purple-red welt with a cut in the center mars his left cheek. God only knows what else they’ve done to him. Petrov’s men aren’t known for their gentle natures, and even though I have no proof, I’m positive Petrov is behind Will’s abduction.
My phone vibrates again. This new message is an address—to a location barely a few blocks from here. Another message follows closely: Bring the book.
I am damned. Petrov and his gang will never stop looking for us, for me. Never stop looking for the journal. But Will…he still has a chance for a normal life. Without me. Even if being with me wasn’t dangerous, Will won’t want me once he realizes where I come from, what I do. Who I am.
But none of that matters right now. Petrov’s men have my maybe-boyfriend, the only person who’s truly innocent in all of this, and I’m the only one who knows how to find him.
I drop the envelope on the glass tabletop, but I keep one picture, the one of us dancing. I fold it neatly in half and tuck it into my bra. A close-to-my-heart reminder of why I wanted out of this life in the first place. Then, I make for my room and my closet with a plan already developing.
Fifteen minutes later, I tuck my journal under my arm, let myself out of my apartment, and hit the button to call the elevator. The wait takes longer than I can ever remember waiting before—a million years, at least—and by the time the elevator finally arrives, I’m practically pressed against the doors waiting for them to open. I lurch inside the empty car gracelessly, pressing the button on my way in. The doors close, and I settle myself against the rail on the back wall.