Overdrive (24 page)

But Chelsea's right. If I have any hope of building my friendship with her, I've got to open up a little. “We're taking it slow.”

“I admire that,” she says. “I'm more of an impulse girl.”

No shit. “You ever regret those knee-jerk decisions?”

The shift in tone is unintentional, but Chelsea's body language tells me she's uncomfortable with the question. I think about dropping it when she sighs. “Are you asking if I miss my parents?”

“Do you?”

She scrunches up the empty popcorn bag and tosses it into the backseat. “Sometimes.” She tilts her head. “Okay, maybe. But I don't regret leaving.” She blows out a long breath. “Well, not entirely.”

“Have you thought about going back?”

She shakes her head. “Not if my father came crawling on his hands and knees.”

Something about the way her voice wavers tells me she isn't quite telling the truth about that, but I don't blame her for lying. Owning up after a fuck-up isn't easy.

But it's like Chelsea is the only one who hasn't really opened up.

“I've never known anyone who chose to go into the foster system,” I say gently. In fact, I don't even know if that's possible.

Chelsea chews on her bottom lip. “Well, I'm not
technically
in the system.” She swallows. “It's kind of complicated.”

A flush of anger rides up my throat but I tamp it back. I'm a hypocrite to expect her to trust me, even after all we've been through. If there's one thing I know something about, it's how to build effective walls.

A flash of light catches my eye, and I decide to drop it. Maybe she'll tell me when she's ready.

We both peer over the dash as headlights pull up to the hangar. Seconds later, blue and reds flicker through the trees.

“That's not Riley,” Chelsea says.

My stomach plummets. “Cops.”

Chelsea scooches up and squints through the bug-splattered windshield. “Kind of strange how the police tracked James down after all this time.”

“There are no coincidences in boosting cars.”

Which means instead of taking the bait, Riley called the police. It doesn't make sense. Either he knew he'd been set up or he has a backup plan.

I zoom the binoculars in on the scene. Two officers get out of a squad car and wave flashlights at the hangar. One walks the perimeter while the other tugs on the door.

A second set of headlights cuts through the trees.

“Tow truck,” Chelsea says.

“Fuck.” I hand her the camera. “Zoom in on the logo as much as you can. You won't get a clear picture, but maybe Mat can work with whatever shows up.”

A shadowy figure runs onto the scene on foot. That's got to be the owner. Judging by the way his fists punch the air, he clearly wasn't expecting this raid.

“They're going to take the car.”

I hold the binoculars steady.

Chelsea's voice lifts. “What do we do if they take the car?”

Tension spider-webs across my neck.

“Jules!”

I snap my head toward her. “I don't fucking know.” Her eyes fill with tears and I curse under my breath. “I'm sorry. I just don't . . .”

Have a clue.

Without the Aston, we've got nothing. All of our work until now, worthless.

Think, Jules. Think.

I hand Chelsea the binoculars and grab my phone. “I'm calling Nick.”

One.

Two.

He picks up on the third ring. “Jules . . . ?”

“We've got a serious problem. Cops are here.”

His voice tightens. “You've been made?”

“No.” I blow out a deep breath. “But the police are taking James. There's a tow truck and everything. They're outside the–”

“Inside,” Chelsea says. “The tow truck is backing up to the door.”

“Stay calm,” Nick says. His voice is muffled like he's covering the microphone, and I hear him talking to someone else–has to be Mat. “Damn it. I thought for sure Riley would take that bait.”

“There's a cash reward for that car. Maybe Kevin wants that all to himself.”

Money over loyalty, that's how he works. Always looking out for Number One. Jesus. How is that a lesson I didn't learn?

“James is on the flatbed,” Chelsea says.

My stomach roils. “What's the plan here, Nick?”

A beat, and then, “Follow them.”

The vein in my neck thickens into a tight cord. I work through the logistics, the options. There aren't any. If I don't do this, we've failed.

I've
failed.

“They're probably going to the impound,” he says. “We just need to know which one.”

I can read between the lines of false optimism. It doesn't matter how experienced we are, how much our crew has gelled, stealing a car from the LVPD isn't as easy as it seems in the movies. Distracting guards, disabling cameras, using blowtorches to cut through fencing–one big Hollywood lie.

“They're leaving,” Chelsea says. “What now?”

“Follow them,” Nick repeats.

“And if they don't go to an impound?”

There's a chance they won't, given the car's significance.

“Follow them to wherever they park it.”

Right. I hand my cell over to Chelsea. “Tell Nick we'll call him back when we have a location.”

Boosting cars is one thing. This PI shit is a whole different pile of crap, and I can't afford the distraction.

I flip a U-turn and drive toward the hangar. The back roads are a maze of unmarked pavement. I stay well under the speed limit to keep off anyone's radar, but by the third intersection, I realize we're lost. I never even got close enough to tail them.

I make a left turn and double back.

Hit reverse and turn right.

Everything looks familiar, but different. There are no landmarks or street signs to gauge my location. I think I see headlights to the left, but it's just a kid on a dune buggy zipping along the ditch.

Chelsea points right. “There!”

I suck in a gasp, hoping she's right.

But as we close in, I realize it's an oversize camper trailer, not the tow truck. I veer off to the side to see in front of it. The road stretches into a dark abyss.

They're gone.

I pull over to the side of the road and slam on the brake. “Fuck!” My fist punches the dashboard, sending a fiery ball of flame through my wrist. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” I'm so mad I start crying. I can barely see through the haze of my grief.

Chelsea reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand. “It's okay, girl. You don't know these roads.”

But I should have.

Instead of feeling sorry for myself or gossiping about Nick, I should have been studying maps. Memorizing back roads and detours.

“I'll GPS directions to the mansion,” Chelsea says.

I can't help but snort. “Maybe I should stay lost for a while. At least until I figure out how to make this up to the guys.”

At this, Chelsea brightens. “You'll be fine. You're practically sleeping with one of them, right?”

My jaw drops.

“Well, if you're not going to tell me what's going on, I have to imagine it.” She grins. “And boy, do I have one helluva good imagination.”

ROGER IS PISSED.

Like, cartoon-character mad. He stalks across the sitting room floor with enough force to dent the wood. His eyes are glossed with rage.

He whirls on me and I flinch. Jesus. He's batshit crazy.

“Just a couple of days,” Nick says.

Roger paces closer to the long sofa table. A crystal frame with a picture of his wife and some antique-looking opera glasses dot the tabletop. He clears it with one sweep, smashing the frame. The image stares up at me from the floor, somehow eerily familiar.

Chelsea gasps.

We've copped to everything–tracking down the car, trying to bait Riley, losing the tail. I didn't expect Roger to do cartwheels, but he's beyond irrational. I edge closer to Nick. One signal from me and we'll grab Emma and run. “We'll get it back.”

Roger's face goes red and he levels me with a stare that sends a shiver down my spine, eyes like deadly laser beams. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”

The question seethes from between his gritted teeth and for a second I'm stunned. Roger's crazy has always hovered just under the surface, but right now it's bubbling over. Every hair on my body stands up in alert.

“We're still checking impounds,” Mat says. “No luck.”

“As I understand it, your current theory is that”–he snarls at me–“your repulsive ex-boyfriend told the police about the car–
my car
–and they have towed it to a common impound lot? A car that's worth several million dollars?”

It does sound implausible when you put it that way.

“I get it. We screwed up.” My muscles tense. “But if you could just give us a couple more–”

“There will be no further negotiations.” He balls his hands into fists and strides toward me. I'm not the kind of girl who cowers, but this lunatic has blown a serious gasket and my whole body chills. “Find. My. Car.”

Nick wedges his way between us, his face an inch from Roger's. “Back off.”

I exhale hard. My T-shirt sticks to the small of my back and my heart pounds so fast I'm sure it's about to punch through my chest. We may have underestimated Roger's wrath.

Roger lowers his voice. Still menacing, but softer. Calm. “Without the Aston Martin, the entire deal is off.” An icy chill crackles along my spine. “All of you–including Emma–will be out.”

Emma.

I can't even remember the last time I've seen her. I've been so wrapped up in this, in all of the stuff with Nick. My chest constricts. She's the whole reason I'm doing this.

“What's the harm in waiting, Rog?” Chelsea opts for charm. “Won't it be that much sweeter?”

He whirls on her and points. “If you ever want to get into Harvard, I suggest you shut up.”

Chelsea blinks in surprise.

Roger stalks to the foot of the foyer and calls up the stairs for Emma. “Would you like to come down here for a minute?”

Fear paralyzes me. “What are you doing?”

Emma peers over the railing and waves when she sees me. “Jules!” A pink tutu floats around her waist like cotton candy, and the ballet slippers Nick bought for her are snug to her feet. The ghost of my younger self glides down the stairs.

“Roger got me into dance lessons,” she says.

Tears spring to my eyes and I blink-blink-blink to shut them down. This is my sister at her happiest and I'm about to strip it all away.

At the bottom of the staircase, she lifts her leg and points her toe toward Nick. “They fit!”

In my periphery, I can see Roger smirking, watching the scene unfold with calculated precision. A sense of dread forms at the base of my neck. I've met dozens of shady people in my life, but never have I gone head-to-head with someone so masterful at manipulation.

Roger is enjoying this control.

Emma looks around the room. “What's going on here?”

Chelsea swoops in with a smooth lie. “Roger said you had a surprise.” She clucks her tongue. “You are totally rocking that tutu, girl.”

Emma practically lifts off the ground with excitement. “You'll come to my audition, right?”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Mat and I say in unison.

She beams. “It's a musical play. I'm trying out for a lead.”

It's hard to hold back my surprise. Emma's anxiety has always prevented her from trying out for anything like this. I worried her nerves would keep her from dancing.

Stability.

The doctors are right. That's Emma's cure. It's more than just the roof over her head–Roger has taken an interest in her. Despite everything, I believe it's genuine, and maybe that's the hard part. None of our other foster parents have ever cared. They just wanted the paycheck.

Roger clears his throat. “I'm afraid I won't be able to make the audition,” he says. “I have some important business to attend. Mr. Grasdal will make sure you arrive on time.”

Emma scrunches up her nose. “In the limo?” At Roger's nod, she shakes her head. “That's okay. Melissa's mom said she would take me.”

My eyebrow arches.

“I met her at registration,” Emma says to me, grinning. “Her mom is a friend of Roger's.”

Roger claps his hands together and avoids my curious stare. I'm happy Emma is meeting people, but shouldn't I know what's going on? Why didn't anyone tell me?

“Very well, then. Emma, dear, you should get some rest. Your first class starts quite early tomorrow.”

Emma gives me a hug good night. I hold on a little longer than I should, and I feel her body tense up. She knows something isn't right. “I'm proud of you,” I whisper.

It's the truth, but not what she wants to hear. I can't assure her I'm not up to no good. If anything, I am more resolved than ever to get back Roger's car–so that we can leave this place forever.

“Good night, sweet pea,” I say.

Her eyes cloud over. “You know I hate when you call me that.”

As she disappears up the stairs, I realize I've made a mistake. The only time I use that nickname is when I'm about to screw up.

My blood boils. I need air, a drink, something. Pushing past Nick, I half run toward the pool, blinking away the tears that mark frustration, sadness, the utter loss of being trapped.

Nick catches up with me at the edge of the waterfall. “Roger won't hurt her.”

“He already has.”

I know Nick understands. Roger has crafted a perfect environment for Emma, a place where she feels safe, loved, and, most important, part of a family. If we don't pull off this heist, he'll take that all away.