Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 22

JACK || SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

I’m too old to be hanging out in a treehouse.

Not only am I too old, I’m too big. I have to make myself physically smaller to get through the entrance, and I sneeze at all the dust that puffs up when I shuffle my way in on my hands and knees.

There’s something eerie about the air in here; it gives off the feeling of having been stagnant for years, and I swear I could see shadows of my younger self if I looked closely enough.

I can’t believe both Stella and I used to fit up here together. I can’t even stretch my legs out all the way while sitting with my back against the wall. This felt like the best place, though.

Because Stella’s birthday is soon, and I actually have a present for her. We came here when we were kids and promised to be friends forever over a failed blood pact. I have something better for her now—a friendship bracelet .

It’s probably stupid, and I’ll never tell anyone but her that I sat down and learned how to braid so I could give her something. But I like the idea of her wearing my bracelet; I like being connected to her. And I figure since this was where we promised to be best friends when we were little, this should be the place we promise now.

I just needed to check what it was like up here first—make sure there aren’t any spiders or squirrels or anything—but it looks good enough for our use.

I half-scoot, half-crawl to the opening that leads to the ladder, but I pause with one foot out when I hear Stella’s voice. It’s distant enough that I can tell she’s just passing by—the treehouse is in my backyard, but my house is on a corner—and I’m about to call out to her when I hear another voice, one I don’t recognize.

My mouth snaps shut as I frown, listening. It’s another girl, probably one of her new friends?—

“That’s Jack’s house,” Stella’s voice says brightly, interrupting my concentration. Just hearing her say my name makes me smile. “Jack Piorra. He’s a grade above us.”

“He’s the guy you talk to all the time, right?” the other voice says, somewhere between intrigued and scandalized. “The one who dresses in black all the time like a creepy Grim Reaper.”

“I—he’s not creepy,” Stella says after a second. I can picture the little frown on her face, the lines in her forehead, the pucker of her lips. “He wears the uniform.”

“Yeah,” her friend says, sounding skeptical. “With black underneath, and black pants, and black shoes.”

“He’s not creepy,” Stella says again. “ He’s just—different.”

It sounds unconvincing, even to me; I glance down at my black pants and black t-shirt, now smudged with dust.

“That’s what people say when they’re trying to be nice,” Stella’s friend says with a little snort. “He’s weird.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” Stella says, sounding nervous now. “He might hear.”

Her friend laughs outright at this. “So?” Then she sighs, which I probably wouldn’t hear if it wasn’t so loud and exaggerated. “Listen up, Stella. If you want to fit in, ditch the goth guy. Okay? Do you want to make friends here?”

“I—of course.”

“And do you want people to like you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then stop hanging out with him so much, or people are going to think you’re weird like him.”

Stella’s voice is so small I can barely make out her response. “I’m not weird.”

“ I know you’re not,” the girl says in what I think is supposed to be a soothing voice. “But other people don’t know that. So hang out with me more, okay?”

“I—okay.”

“Yay!” Then comes the sound of scuffling footsteps, maybe like she’s skipping, because when Stella’s friend’s voice comes again, it’s further away. “Come on!” she calls. “Get away from the house so it doesn’t infect you with weirdness!”

Stella’s reluctant giggle is the last thing I hear before they’re gone, out of earshot.

I look down at my clothes again, something ugly twisting in my stomach.

Does Stella really want to be like all these other kids? Why? And why didn’t she stand up for me more? She let that girl all but throw me under the bus.

I dig in my pocket until I find the friendship bracelet, pulling it out and holding it up to inspect. It’s not much to look at—a small black braid, really—but it doesn’t look too bad, does it? Would Stella even wear it?

A hot prickle of anger washes over me as the sound of her reluctant laughter rings in my ears.

Maybe she’s not someone I should be giving a friendship bracelet to after all. So I slip the bracelet on my own wrist instead and squeeze my eyes shut. They’re watering from all the dust in this stupid treehouse in this stupid tree at this stupid house.

From now on, I’m my own best friend.

STELLA

“Were you really going to give me a friendship bracelet?” I say, my eyes wide. I can feel them prickling, and I blink impatiently.

“Yeah,” Jack says—more of a grunt, really. “I ended up keeping it for myself. That black one I always used to wear.”

We’re sitting at his kitchen table, and for the moment, all talk of stolen rings has been put on hold. I remember the day he’s referring to; the girl was Halyssa Vancouver, someone I haven’t thought of in years, and she was catty and exclusive—mean.

When I hung out with her, I was mean, too.

I remember the sick swirl of guilt as I laughed that day; I remember making myself laugh anyway .

“I have no excuse,” I say, my soul feeling so heavy under the weight of the past. “None at all.”

Jack shakes his head and holds up one hand to stop me. “I didn’t tell you so you’ll apologize for something you did when you were a kid,” he says.

“But I should apologize,” I argue. Something horribly like tears is clawing at the back of my throat, and I try to swallow them down. “Because I never did, Jack. I never said sorry.”

He shrugs. “I got to put staples in your skull, didn’t I?” he says, pointing to my head. “So I’m all good.”

“Don’t do that,” I say. I swipe angrily at my eyes. “Don’t pretend like it’s not a big deal.”

“But it’s not, ” Jack says with a sigh. He leans forward. “It was a billion years ago, Stella. It felt like a big deal to me then, but I’m not an angry teenager anymore.” His dark eyes flit over my face. “I grew up, matured. So did you.”

I sniffle like a gross snot monster. “I’m still sorry.”

“So am I,” he says. “We were stupid. But I’m not holding it against you, okay? Now let’s change the subject.” He gestures to me, one brow arching. “You’re about to burst into tears, and it’s painful to watch.”

“Fine,” I say, swiping at my cheeks again. “Let’s talk about the rings you stole from your stepmother.”

“She stole them from me first,” he fires back. He relaxes in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “They were never hers to begin with.”

“That may be,” I concede, “but they cannot go missing while I am in charge of watching her house. I will be suspect number one. So we need to take them back.” I point toward the hallway that leads to his room. “Right now. Go get them. ”

“Awfully bossy, aren’t you, Stella girl?” he says as a smirk tugs at his lips. He settles himself even more comfortably in his chair, if that’s possible. “Didn’t you say you don’t like growly demands?”

“From you,” I correct him, and it feels good to be bantering normally again instead of dwelling on my teenage stupidity. “I don’t like growly demands from you. ”

“Ah,” he says slowly, brows raised, chin up. “But don’t you think a true relationship requires equal footing and no double standards?”

I point once again to the hallway. “Unless you want me digging through all your drawers, go. Get. Them.”

That smirk widens into a full-blown grin. “What’s the magic word, Princess?”

I have several words for him, none of them magic, none of them polite. And he must be able to see this, because he throws his head back and laughs before finally pushing his chair away from the table and standing.

“All right, but let me run something by you,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall.

I cock one brow at his retreating back. “Yes?”

He reappears a moment later with a small brown box in one hand and settles smoothly in the chair next to mine, all lithe muscles and grace. Then he plops the box on the table in front of us.

“I recognize that,” I say with a frown, pointing at it. “That was in your room. It was on top of your dresser when I?—”

“When you woke up in my bed?” he finishes, cocking one eyebrow at me and grinning. “Sure was.”

I press my hands to my cheeks and clear my throat. “How long have you had those? When did you take them? ”

He lets out a gust of breath. “After the Christmas party. We kissed.”

I stare blankly at him.

“And then I panicked,” he adds, as though this will clear things up.

“And naturally, when one panics, one…steals jewelry?” I say. “I’m missing the connection.”

He slumps back in his chair and rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint flush of red climbing his neck, spreading to the tips of his ears. “I freaked out, okay? So then I went to get the rings. Something about being in control of my life—I don’t know,” he adds defensively. “It made sense at the time.”

I hold my hands up. “No judgment here,” I say, but my eyes fall to the box on the table again. “Well, except for the part about actually taking the rings. I might judge you a little for that.” I infuse enough lightness into my tone that he knows I’m joking—but it’s weird, this line I’m trying to walk. Friendly but more, but not too much more.

Still, the flash of relief in his eyes and the slight tug of his lips tell me I’m doing okay.

“Here’s what I was thinking,” he say. He sits up now and leans closer, keeping his voice low—even though we’re literally the only living creatures in this apartment.

Does he ever get lonely?

“You should get a pet,” I say, which is fully off-topic, but whatever. “A cat, maybe. Like the one you had growing up. Chutney.”

He stares at me for a second, his dark eyes wide, and then he smiles. It’s another one of those bone-melting smiles, small and sweet but secretive, like he understands something I don’t .

“What’s that?” I say, pointing at his mouth. “What’s that expression for?”

He shakes his head and resumes his serious face. “Nothing,” he says, looking back at the box. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Nothing. Stop distracting me.” Then he jerks his chin at the box. “So here’s my plan. I replace the real rings with fake rings and then put them back in her house. That way I have the real rings, and she never knows.”

My stomach is still flip-flopping from that smile, but I force myself to think through his idea. Then I frown. “That wouldn’t work. You don’t have time. She’s coming back tomorrow , Jack.”

“I already have some of the fakes,” he says, reaching for the box. “Look.” He unclasps it and then gently eases it open, revealing a red velvet cushion in which are displayed five rings. My breath catches in spite of myself; I’m not a fancy jewelry person, but I can tell how nice they are. Gold, one inlaid with diamonds, another with one giant emerald, some thin bands, some thick—they’re gorgeous.

Well—I amend that thought as my eyes find two particular rings— most of them are gorgeous.

“Is that—” I reach for the rings on the far left. “Are those mood rings?”

“Yep,” he says, completely unconcerned. “From a cereal box.”

“You can’t replace these with cheap fake stuff,” I say incredulously. “She’ll obviously know.”

“You have no faith in me,” he says. He leans closer to me, and when he speaks, he’s back to that low, conspiratorial tone. “I’m not stupid, Princess. So here’s what I’m thinking. This box had dust on it. All right? It was dusty, tucked away in the top of her closet. There’s another painting in there, by the way.”

“Ew,” I say, my nose wrinkling. I didn’t go in her closet—and now I never will.

“Yeah,” he says, his lips quirking briefly before he starts talking again. “So here’s my plan. Return the box with high quality fakes. I’ll keep the real ones. She’ll never know, in part because she never takes this box out.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with a shake of my head. “I still can’t get past the mental image of you rummaging around in your stepmother’s closet.”

“It’s not my fondest memory,” he says impatiently, “but can you please focus?”

I sigh, folding my arms. They’re warm and cushiony because of the giant sweatshirt I’m still wearing; in fact, all of me is very soft and comfortable right now. “So what about the mood rings?” I say. “You’re not going to put those in there?”

“Nah,” he says, waving this away. “I was joking. I just have them there as placeholders.”

“If you did this,” I say slowly, “you would be running a decent risk. Because what—are you going to return the box empty for now, and then sneak back in and put the high quality fakes in at a later date? Or would you just keep the entire box and all the rings until you’ve got the fakes? Either way, if she looked at them or looked for the box before you replaced it, she’d know something was wrong.” I lean forward and let my forehead flop onto the table. “Ugh, Jack, I am not a strategic thinker about this stuff. How do criminals figure out heists? Isn’t that hard to plan?”

He huffs a laugh from next to me, and I sit up again.

“All right,” I say. “I can grudgingly admit that your plan might work— might —if you got the fakes in before she noticed the real rings were gone.”

Jack nods, looking satisfied.

“However,” I add, my voice severe now. “If she realizes the rings are gone?—”

“I’m not going to let you take the fall,” he says, rolling his eyes. “If she finds out, I’ll own up to everything.”

I look at him for a moment, biting my lip. Then, finally, I make myself speak. “Have you considered just…not doing this?” I say, my voice soft. “You could legitimately get in a lot of trouble for this, Jack. You’re a doctor. You have a life.”

And I know I’m not imagining the hesitation I see flash through his eyes—a brief moment of doubt, vacillation.

“Because you could talk to a lawyer,” I go on. “You could even just ask what your options are.”

That doubt intensifies; I can see it in the twitch of his jaw, in the furrow of his dark brows. His eyes are on me, but his mind is far away.

When he finally speaks, his voice breaks. “My mother’s rings, Stella,” he says, and the way his shoulders sag makes me want to hug him.

“I know,” I say quickly. “I know. I truly do. I just…” I trail off and then go on, because it needs to be said. “I like you. I like you, and I want you to be happy and functional. I don’t want you to go to jail or get in trouble. That’s all.” My words are small, quiet, but at least I get them out.

And who am I to tell him what to do? But I am trying to be happy and functional myself. I lost sight of who I was after what happened at Smith and Sons; I lost Stella Partridge. But I’m starting to find her again.

I don’t want Jack to lose his future because of something that happened in the past—even something as wonderful and worthy as his mother.

The future is more important than what we’ve left behind, and I don’t know that we can wait around for all our wrongs to be righted. Sometimes I think we might have to move forward anyway—even when life has been unfair. Even when the bad guys won, or the other team cheated and beat us down.

I probably won’t get justice for what happened to me. But I think I need to go on anyway, or I’m going to get stuck in the past, and that’s not where my life is.

“Just…think about it,” I say into the silence that’s blossomed between us. “Okay?”

“I—” He breaks off, looking irritated, and then tries again. “She’s coming back tomorrow , Stella.”

I shrug, and he rolls his eyes, a wordless sound of frustration leaving his lips.

“Fine,” he growls, slamming the lid of the box shut. “Fine. I’ll take—” He stops, swallows, and then goes on, through gritted teeth this time. “I’ll take them back.” Every word sounds like it’s being wrenched from him.

“If you take them back,” I say, “you’re not allowed to be angry at me. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” he says—another eye roll—“I know. You’re?—”

I raise my brows, waiting.

“You’re right,” he finally spits out. Then he curses, grabs the box, and storms toward his front door. “Are you coming or not?”

My stomach growls. “Can we get food on the way?”

“Yes,” he snaps, “but you’re paying.”

I just smile.