Page 136 of Best Kind of Trouble
Again…Jesus fucking Christ.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter.
We both start climbing, Cormac next to me. Thirty seconds later, I’m breaking his fall on the other side of the fence. He’s got a wild grin on his face, like he thinks we’ve already gotten away with something.
“All right, let’s go.” I nod at him. “The window’s back here.”
I creep slowly toward the side of the house, Cormac following close behind me—his progress marked by the snapping of twigs. I pause beneath the window. Then I weave my hands together, creating a foothold.
“Do the honors, RoboCop.”
I smile despite myself because he looks excited as he steps into my joined palms. The window slides open easily, and Cormac wiggles through, no problem. I pull myself up and climb through after him—a tighter squeeze, but it’s a large picture window.
Once we’re inside, I lead the way to the dining room, where the plaque hangs on the wall, gaudy and proud.
“Oh, I can see why you want to destroy it,” Cormac comments in an undertone. “That’s a really disgusting waste of good wood.”
I grin as I lift it off the wall. It’s made of heavy maple, and it weighs about fifty pounds.
“You need help with that?”
“That’s okay, man. I got it.”
We head back into the hallway, and he pauses in front of an alcove in the wall, sectioned off by fancy metal scrollwork. A small, framed print is tucked inside of it. “Is that an original Picasso print?”
He reaches through to touch it, then goes to pull his hand back and gasps, a look of panic on his face. “I’m stuck.”
“Nah, you can’t be.” I set down the plaque, and give his arm a yank. But damn straight, it won’t come out, no matter how he angles his hand. It’s as if physics is bent in this one small portion of the house.
“Mayday, mayday,” Otis exclaims into the walkie-talkie. “Wait. This is Oats. Mayday!”
I pull the walkie-talkie out of my coat pocket.
“What is it, Oats?” I ask, sweat beading on my brow.
“There’s a car coming. It’s not the Sterlings’ car, but it’s at the gate. The driver’s a woman. She has blue hair, but she’s pretty old. I know Dottie prefers it when we say ‘prime of her life,’ but this woman’s face is all wrinkled and?—”
“Oats.”
“She has some kind of card, it looks like, and she’s swiping…” He gulps audibly. “The gate’sopening.”
I stow the radio in my pocket.
“What are we going to do?” Cormac says, his face losing color.
“I could chop your hand off.”
“Do you really think we need to?” he asks, totally serious.
I’d smile if I weren’t worried there could be jail time in our future.
“I’m going to go look for some oil in the kitchen.”
“But someone’s coming,” he hisses, giving his hand another ineffectual yank.
“So we better get out before they show up.”
I hurry off, remembering the vague direction of the kitchen from when Briar’s mom fucked off to it a couple of times during dinner. It takes me about five minutes, but I find it, locate a bottle of expensive-looking olive oil, and hurry back with it.
