Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(39)

If I thought the wait for the elevator to climb to my floor was long, I was in no way prepared for the descent to the lobby, and in no time, I’m pacing inside it like a caged lion. I’m ready to be free; I’m ready for the hunt. Ready for blood. The doors open, and I race into the lobby, then past the doorman and out onto the street.

I stop only for a moment to consider my options. Then I take off in the direction of Petrov’s place.

When I get there, I stick close to the shadows on the street and try to visually gather as much information as possible. The brownstone is dark when I get there, but light filters through at the corners of the windows, like they’re covered with ill-fitting blackout curtains. Or hastily hung blankets. Either way, I can tell by the cracks in the window covering that there are lights on—and potentially people—in both of the front rooms on the garden level, and at least one room on each of the next four levels is potentially occupied. I have no way of knowing where they’re holding Will, and I could potentially have to fight my way through the entire building to find him. But I can’t just walk in the front door.

I circle around to the alley and let myself into the courtyard, creeping on silent feet and leaving the shadows only when necessary. In the corner, a fire escape looms in the darkness. The window at the second landing is black, no light filtering through from the room beyond.

It isn’t until I’m standing directly beneath the fire escape that I realize there’s one flaw in my plan. It’s raised, and I’m too short to reach the bottom rung to pull it down. I stand on my toes, reach for all I’m worth, attempt a soft jump. But it’s just out of reach. I’ll have to get a running start.

First things first: I need to find a place to stash my journal. Bringing it with me would mean risking getting caught with it—and losing what little leverage I have to rescue Will. I step back and take stock of the garden. It’s longer than it is wide, and a thin planter box, filled with ground plants, runs the length of each side wall. I settle on a dark area behind a thick, leafy fern. I smooth my hands down my button-down black dress and absently trace the contrasting lavender pleats. The skirt is short enough that it will draw attention but not short enough to expose the shurikens I’ve strapped to each thigh. And I’ve offset the potential for exposure with fishnets and knee-high motorcycle boots, complete with a dagger tucked into the hidden sheath inside each. My sweater was utilitarian only, and right now warmth is secondary to movement. Will’s picture is still tucked into my bra. That will be warmth enough.

In what must be record time, my journal is wrapped securely in my sweater and tucked out of sight, hidden from view by both shadows and fern leaves that are ridiculously abundant for February.

As soon as I’m satisfied that the journal is as safe as I can make it for the time being, I return my attention to the business of getting into the townhouse. If I start at the back wall, I might be able to build up enough momentum to jump high enough.

But if I still can’t grab the ladder, I’ll have to start all over. Every second of delay increases the chances that I’ll be discovered. I need as much momentum as possible. The gymnast in me knows that the only way to ensure enough speed, enough kinetic energy to launch myself high enough is to flip on my way into the jump.

If I miss, I’ll hit the wall. Hard. But it’s the only real option. I back up and press myself tight against the garden wall. My nerves are strung tight, but I can’t afford to be nervous. Will can’t afford for me to be nervous. I stretch my neck, drop my shoulders, shake the tension out of my arms, and push away all thoughts of how much my upturned skirt will be exposing. I can’t afford to be embarrassed. Besides, with any luck, no one will be watching—because if someone is watching, I’ll have more to worry about than just showing my pantied rear end. I jump up once, twice, three times to test my weight and balance in my boots. Then I rub my hands together and blow on them to get the blood flowing.

I break into a run, shooting across the narrow courtyard. Halfway there, I roll into a front handspring, but instead of preparing to land smoothly, absorbing the force of the jump with my body, I use it to my advantage, launching myself high enough to grab hold of the bottom rung of the fire escape.

The palms of my hands smack against the metal hard, and I wrap my fingers around the bar. Once my grip is set, I pull myself up until both feet are firmly planted on the ladder. My heart is still racing when I reach the second floor. I test the window and relax when it glides open easily. As soon as I’m inside, I close the window behind me. I don’t want to accidentally give away my presence here by leaving my way in wide open.

The room is empty, devoid of both people and furniture. A door on the other side sits open wide, and through the yawning opening, a landing stretches, bordered on one side by a dark wood trailing. Voices drift from farther down the landing, deep, gruff voices with thick accents. The sound sets off a firestorm of anxiety in the pit of my stomach, but I can’t turn back now. I start in the direction of the voices, intent on looking my fear in the eye and giving it the finger.

I’m painfully aware of every squeaky board, every overly heavy footstep as I exit the room and creep down the landing to the open door at the other end. I’m careful to stay just inside the shadows, which seem darker, more ominous the closer I get to the light streaming through the doorway.

It must take me a hundred years to get within a few feet of the room, but once I’m there, all I can see is a wall covered in faded damask wallpaper and grounded by an ornate marble fireplace in the center. The mantel is offset by a mirror hanging above, but the finish is so old and murky, I might as well be looking into muddy water. I have no choice but to cross over what I’ve now come to consider the danger zone, the shaft of light that could illuminate my presence to anyone who might be inside that room.