Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 6

STELLA

Aside from being thoroughly rattled at the appearance of Jack Piorra—the boy who was once my best friend—I’m also concerned about his wording when he said Tell me what happened to your shiny architect job, and maybe I’ll leave for the night.

It’s the for the night that has me extra worried. Because that makes it sound like he’s planning to come back another time.

Which is obviously unacceptable, on account of my responsibility to keep the house safe and then get paid for it.

I cross my legs on my bed, trying to focus on my morning breathing exercise—in for six, hold for six, out for eight—but my breaths keep taking on rhythms of their own, snippets of heated conversation from last night still floating in my memory.

We weren’t always this rude to each other. He didn’t always view me with such disdain. But what he said was true: there was a time when I was a snob.

I’ve changed—been beaten down by life, made aware of my excessive fallibility, given up on trying to fit in—but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that I’m no longer the girl I was in high school.

Has he changed too?

I sigh, abandoning my breathing exercises and flopping back on the bed.

I’m not sure I want to find out.

“Stop thinking about him,” I tell myself. “He stopped thinking about you years ago.” The space heater in the corner of my room gives a little shudder, like it thinks I’m weird for talking to myself. I ignore it, because it’s a space heater, and it doesn’t get to have an opinion.

It stays quiet as I trudge around my little basement unit getting ready for the day, though. I feel like I’m moving through molasses this morning, and I can only blame part of that on my trouble sleeping last night. Because I know the real cause: the crumbs of disappointment and shame digesting themselves in the pit of my stomach, leftovers from what I said to Jack, soaked in the memory of the things he said to me.

It’s a gross feeling, recognizing that you’ve behaved badly and wishing you could change it, knowing you can’t. I work at my parents’ market for half the day, and that sensation churns heavily inside of me, disturbing me more and more despite everything I do to stay busy.

Easily the most distracting thing that happens is a call from Maude Ellery herself, early afternoon, asking if I’d be interested in an extra hundred dollars .

“Of course,” I tell her, pacing back and forth in the break room.

She then proceeds to tell me that in a storage closet upstairs in her house are several boxes of Christmas decorations she’d like me to put up. I agree immediately.

I will put up Christmas decorations. I would put on Christmas decorations for more pay; I would dress up like Santa Claus and boogie with all four parakeets if it meant I could build up my savings a little faster.

Like I said, I love my parents. I’m beyond grateful for their help. But I need to stand on my own two feet.

And how, exactly, are you going to do that? my mind whispers, and it’s a question I don’t have an answer for.

Regardless, when I head over to Maude Ellery’s later that evening, it’s with a forced determination to do my job thoroughly and well—even though it still feels like something is rotting in my gut, thanks to last night’s encounter.

The wind is harsh today, blowing away what’s left of the weak sunlight like a candle being snuffed. Jack was right; it snowed last night, and there’s not a lot of it, but it is slick. I traverse the sidewalk in front of Maude’s house, unsteady in my boots, holding my hands over my ears in an attempt to prevent them getting too cold.

I get migraines when my ears get too cold; I always have. I should have worn a hat.

The alcove of the front porch is a welcome break when I get there, and I punch the key code in quickly, shivering and shuddering in the snow-stung wind. I’m actually glad to get inside, even though the house still has that same creepy air it had yesterday.

I look around as I step out of my boots in the entryway, half-expecting Jack to be here .

He’s not, of course—and thank goodness. I don’t need him showing up in the house I’m watching, trying to steal who-knows-what from his stepmother and her weird half-naked self-portraits.

Still, even as I go about my chores—feeding the birds, pouring food for the elusive cats I have yet to meet, airing out rooms—a little thought sticks to my mind like a burr: What if he comes back? Or, possibly even worse, what if he’s already been here today?

Because he really did make it sound like he was going to return. And if he’s looking for something he didn’t find last night…

How can I keep him out of this place?

“When did you turn into a thief, Jack?” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my forehead as though that will dispel my blooming migraine.

Jack was never a bad person. He was maybe a punk in high school after we went our proverbial separate ways, a rebel and a loner, but he was never bad.

I don’t know who or what he is now. But I’m not letting him get into this house and steal from his stepmother. Because I need her to pay me, dangit , and I doubt she will do that if I let someone waltz right in and take a bunch of stuff from her bedroom.

“How did he get in yesterday?” I say as I inspect the living room windows after I’ve finished everything else. “Is it just because these were already open?”

It is, I realize. He removed the screen and never put it back, which means I have to do it. Once I’ve popped it back in place, I close the window again. I fiddle with the locks in the room, testing them, opening and closing, until I come to the unfortunate conclusion that while three of the window locks seem to be in perfect working order, one of them is not.

“All right,” I say. “In that case…”

I guess I could pull a Kevin McCallister, the kid from Home Alone. I need to put up some Christmas decorations, and at some point I have to go home, so I can’t sit and guard this window all night. But I could probably booby trap it. Then at least I would know if Jack had been here.

And I wouldn’t say no to inconveniencing him in the process. Stealing is wrong; breaking into a house, even his stepmother’s, is wrong. I see no reason I should make it easy.

What should I put there, though? In Home Alone he used glass ornaments, didn’t he? Or was it marbles?

I’m not cruel enough to use glass, and Jack would be wearing shoes anyway. I don’t have any marbles, but I do have access to a large, fancy kitchen…

“Hey,” I say to India over the phone ten minutes later. “I have a super weird request.”

“Always lead with that,” she says. “The answer is already yes. What do you need?”

“Your sister bakes a lot, right?” I say, staring down at the two rolling pins placed in front of the window. “Does she have any rolling pins I could borrow?”

“Definitely,” India says. “You need some?”

“I do,” I say. “Are you free right now?”

“Yeah,” India says. “I got off work two hours ago. I can bring them over.” She pauses. “Why, though?”

I don’t know why, but I haven’t told India about seeing Jack yet. I’m still working out how I feel and what I think. So instead of going into details, I just say, “It’s hard to explain. Could you run them over to the place I’m house-sitting? ”

“Sure,” India says, and I picture her shrugging. “Juliet won’t mind.”

I know she won’t, because Juliet Marigold is the single sweetest human being on the face of the earth.

“Tell her thank you for me!” I say.

“I will,” India says. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll head out. Send me the address.”

And this is how, thirty minutes later, I find myself looking at the floor in front of the window, five rolling pins lined up in a neat row. I pull out my phone and take a few pictures from different angles, because if Jack broke in and slipped and then tried to set them back up the same way, I’d probably never know. This way I can see exactly how they’re positioned now; I’ll be able to tell if they’ve been disturbed.

Then, with a satisfied nod, I make my way upstairs to find the Christmas decorations. I absolutely do not let myself wonder what Jack was hunting for as I pass Maude Ellery’s bedroom; after airing it out earlier, I closed the door, because the portrait in there is the most awkward by far. No one but Maude needs to see herself sprawled on a giant bed with strategically placed blankets.

Well—I grin to myself—Maude and India, who I sent pictures to yesterday.

Because I’ve aired out every room in the house, I already know where to find the storage room. I find the Christmas decorations easily enough too, since the boxes are clearly labeled. I carry three of them downstairs, one at a time, setting them on the floor in the middle of the living room with an oomph.

After grabbing a knife from the kitchen, I make quick work of unloading all three boxes. One of them has bundles of garland and a few tangled strings of lights; I pull all of those out and set them aside. The second box is full of bubble-wrapped Christmas trinkets, all of which Maude probably has a preferred place for, so I’m not sure why she’s having me do this. I get them out anyway, because she’s paying me.

The last box has more strands of lights, the big, colorful ones that you never see around anymore. I look over the lot and decide to do the garland first; it takes me a stupidly long time to wrap it around the banister of the stairs, and I only have enough for one side.

I bet there’s more in the storage room, though. I hurry up to take a look.

But I’ve just hefted a box labeled Greenery into my arms when I hear it: a thud from downstairs, followed by a crash, and then, finally, one very loud swear word.

Jack.

I set the box of greenery down and stumble out of the storage room, pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Half past ten— really? When did it get so late?

I’m much quicker going down the steps than I was going up, and my heart has jumped into my throat again. I’m breathless by the time I pass under the branch of the stairs and into the living room—where, sure enough, I find Jack Piorra, dressed in snow-dusted black joggers and a black shirt tonight, just in the process of getting up off the floor.

“I can’t believe—” I begin, but I break off with a hiss as my bare foot finds something sharp. Too late, I realize I’ve stepped on one of the large glass lights; the shards send a hot stab of pain through my heel.

My attention redirects to Jack, though, when he speaks.

“Did you—” He’s staring down in disbelief, his eyes wide like he can’t believe anyone would be so petty. “Did you put these here on purpose? ” He gestures to the rolling pins, now scattered on the floor.

“Yes,” I say unapologetically, trying to ignore the throb of pain in my foot. “Don’t look at me like that. I did it precisely because I figured you might come back, and if you did, I wanted to know. I can’t just sit and guard the house for the next eleven days.” Then I point at the window. “And you can leave the same way you came, please. Or I really will call the police.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t we establish that this is my stepmother’s house?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to stay calm. “But if she wanted you here, you would have a key.”

His expression hardens, but he doesn’t answer, which I take to mean I’m right.

“That’s what I thought,” I say. I point at the window. “Go. Now. Or use the front door—whatever. I don’t care. Just leave.”

That hard expression on Jack’s face morphs into a smirk. “You still think you can boss me around?” he says softly, stepping over the rolling pins. “I’m not the boy you used to play with, Princess.” He towers over me as he comes closer. “I won’t do whatever you ask just because you’re beautiful.”

Something catches in my chest, but I raise one brow at him. “I never expected that, and you know it.”

His eyes flash as he opens his mouth to speak—but he stops when his attention trails down my body and lands on my foot. His gaze jumps briefly to the broken light, and then back to my foot. He points at it. “You should do something about that.”

He’s right; I should. It hurts, the cut stinging painfully enough that I’ve shifted all my weight to my other side, and I’m kind of worried I’m going to bleed all over this fancy carpet.

“I will,” I say, my voice stiff as my migraine pulses behind my eyes. “Leave first.”

“Hmm,” he says. His gaze glitters as he folds his arms, one dark brow quirking arrogantly. “No. I don’t think I will.” Then he jerks his chin at the couch. “Go sit down.”

I fold my arms too. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

He glares at me, but I don’t budge. I just shake my head.

“Good grief, Stella,” he mutters, running his hand down his face. “Are you like this all the time? Sit down. ”

My hands tighten into fists, but I don’t uncross my arms. “You are not my parent, and you’re not my boss,” I say as he steps toward me. “So don’t tell me what to?—”

But I break off when he reaches for me, my voice falling away as he lifts me into his arms, bridal style; he bends down and heaves me up, looking irritated, one arm hooking under my knees and one encircling my back. I gape up at him, lost for words, as he carries me with apparent ease over to the couch, where he drops me unceremoniously.

“Stay,” he grits out, his gaze darting to my foot again. “Just—don’t move, unless you want to make that worse.” He looks around. Then, as though every word is being wrenched from his mouth, he says, “There’s probably a first aid kit somewhere.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because what. Is. Happening?

“What are you doing?” I say faintly as he strides into the kitchen.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he says over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

“I’m not,” I say, not bothering to hide my irritation now, “so you can stop making all these growly demands. ”

“Sorry, Princess,” he calls. “Growly demands are a key part of my personality.”

I hear a sound like he’s digging through cupboards; then I hear the sound of the kitchen faucet.

“People don’t like to be bossed around,” I say loudly.

The faucet shuts off, and he speaks again. “Not much I can do about what other people like and don’t like.”

“A real delight,” I mutter.

“Don’t flatter me,” he says sarcastically as he emerges back into the living room, a medium-sized white container in his hand. His gaze focuses on me more seriously. “Do you think there’s glass embedded in your foot?”

“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth. It’s taking everything I have not to let tears leak out of my eyes, which makes me the biggest wimp alive.

Jack hums but doesn’t say anything else; he just crouches down on the floor in front of where I’m seated on the couch. Then he holds out one hand.

“What?” I say, looking at it.

“Foot.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, and he sighs.

“Foot,” he repeats, the word impatient. “Give me your foot.” And, when I still don’t move, he adds, “Well? Do you want the glass to stay in there forever?”