Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 5

JACK

Stella freaking Partridge.

I loved that girl once—loved her foolishly, desperately, because we were young, and she was beautiful, and I was weak.

She’s still beautiful, but I’m no longer weak.

I thump my chest a few times when I reach my car, catching my breath, trying to get my pulse to behave normally. I’m not a breaking-and-entering kind of guy, whatever Stella may think. I don’t usually enter through windows or dig through someone else’s things.

But Maude Ellery took something from me, something that never belonged to her. So, yeah—I’m going to get it back.

I let my head fall back against the headrest of the driver’s seat, my eyes fluttering closed. I would love nothing more than to go home and go to bed, but I have to head in to work to cover a night shift. And maybe it’s for the best. Stella’s face is still in my mind, and it needs to go. She needs to go .

I sigh. She looks different.

Still beautiful, I can admit, but it’s a different kind of beauty now—more natural, somehow. In high school she went out of her way to look good, with perfect hair and glossy lips and a bright smile that was fake half the time. She wanted nothing more than to fit in, a scholarship student trying to earn her place in an elite private school—and as much as I couldn’t stop my eyes from following her everywhere, I hated her for it, too.

She was already great before she came to Windsor Academy—awesome, even. We were inseparable throughout elementary school and the public junior high. But she became part of the mindless herd when we went to Windsor. And when I overheard what she said that day, all those years ago…it was the final straw.

I’ve cooled down over the years, of course; it no longer matters who she was or what she did in high school. It’s in the past, and ultimately, she did what she thought she had to do to survive. But running into her so unexpectedly…it seems to have brought up some old feelings, petty ones I’m not proud of. The scorn I clung to as a defense mechanism against my feelings for her; the anger that hid my pain over losing my mother.

Yeah, I’ve been to therapy. So what?

And in fact, thinking about therapy?—

I sit up straighter, my mind churning. The other night I was over at the old church on First and Main. I was rattled, because I saw a girl who looked like Stella coming out of the room where the AA group meets.

Is Stella in recovery?

She must be. No one accidentally shows up at an AA meeting .

“What happened to you, Princess?” I murmur, another wave of exhaustion crashing over me. I need to get going, or I’m going to fall asleep right here. I don’t have time to wonder why an old ex-friend is lying about her job—and she’s definitely lying, because that little spot on her jaw twitched—or why she’s wearing an air of defeat like a second skin, or how she became an alcoholic in the years since we parted.

Stella Partridge is none of my business.

I don’t get off work until six in the morning, and after that I have to drive the twenty-five minutes from Boulder back to Lucky. By the time I stumble through the front door of my tiny rental home, I’m dead on my feet.

There aren’t a lot of apartments in Lucky, Colorado. There are a few neighborhoods with a row or two of townhomes, but other than that, there are mostly just houses. The one I’m settled in is small but well cared for, a single bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. It always seems bigger when I get home from a long shift, though—bigger and, unfortunately, emptier.

I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about maybe getting a cat. I would actually love a dog, but I don’t think I can commit to taking care of an animal that requires so much tending to. I’m on call a lot, which means my time isn’t always my own.

A silver cat, maybe, like the one we had growing up, or a big orange Garfield. Just…something. Another living creature to breathe the same air as me.

Stella breathed the same air as you last night, my brain whispers. I tell it to shut up.

Her presence at Maude’s does complicate things a bit, though. It took me a while to track down my mother’s rings—five golden rings, given to my mother by my father for five anniversaries before my mother died—but once I learned they’d ended up with Maude, I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble to get them back.

Maude was the stepmother from hell, a woman whose only recommending quality is that my father met her when I was already out of the house and in college. She married him for his money, of that I have no doubt, and when he died after his third stroke a few years ago, she went on the prowl again—taking my mother’s rings with her.

I’ve been keeping an eye on the woman, like a verified stalker, and my best window to get the rings back is while she’s on vacation. I really don’t care about the rest of the things she got from my dad after he died, even stuff I could argue should be mine—I just want the rings.

My mother was a saint, the best person I’ve ever known. And my father may have been an aloof workaholic, but to his credit, he loved my mom. A very small part of me is glad they’re both gone, because they would shudder to see the way I’m living now.

I’m making decent money; I keep my space clean and orderly. But I’m no gentleman, and now I’m even a thief. I don’t have a wife, or a girlfriend, or even so much as a friendly female colleague. I spend my holidays alone, and I have for years.

Might still get a cat, though. That’s something.

I bypass the kitchen, even though my stomach is growling, heading instead straight for my bedroom. Sometimes I have to choose between eating and sleeping, and I’ve discovered that sleep is nearly always the better choice. I throw myself on the bed the second it’s within reach, and then, my lids already heavy, I make a quick phone call.

I call Benny because a) who else would I call? He’s my only friend; b) he knows everything about everyone in this town; and c) he’s definitely awake already. It rings three times before he answers, out of breath; he’s probably at the gym.

“Hey,” I say. “Got a question for you.”

“Make it quick,” he says. “I’m doing a rep of lunges.”

“Stella Partridge,” I say, flinging my arm over my eyes to block out the light.

“What about her?”

“Is she back in town permanently?” I say. “Do you know if she moved here? Or is she just visiting for the holidays?” I don’t ask about the alcoholism; it’s none of my business, and it’s definitely none of Benny’s.

“She’s back,” Benny says, still breathing hard. “Don’t know what happened. But she’s been working over at the market. Living in her parents’ basement, I think.”

Interesting.

“How sure are you?”

“Saw her at the store, heard the rest from her mom while checking out.” There’s a glug-glug-glug sound—Benny chugging water, I think—and then he speaks again. “You still obsessed with this girl?”

“I’ve never been obsessed with her,” I say through gritted teeth. “I just liked her for a while. She’s a pain in my side.” Guys like me and girls like Stella— women like Stella—don’t mix. I’ve always known that.

Benny snorts. “Whatever you say, man. ”

I would protest more, but it only makes me look guilty, so I don’t.

“All right, thanks,” I say instead.

“Yep. Later.”

“Later.”

And then we hang up, and I let the phone drop to the bed beside my head. My last thought before I plunge into sleep is that I’ll have to go back to Maude’s again tonight—not so early this time.