Last Chance Academy

by Alex Lidell

  “Now, Samantha.” Leonards’s tone turns cool. “We all know Joey doesn’t belong on that list. I need my son by my side. If Janie doesn’t feel comfortable with the arrangement, however…” Pulling out her phone, Leonards hovers her finger over the keypad, her aged hand shaking slightly. She doesn’t like Joey any more than I do, but the asshole is holding a whole box of food right now.

  Janie’s small hand covers the phone. “I’m fine with Joey, Mrs. Leonards,” she says, throwing me a meaningful glance. “I’d rather stay here with you both than go to a different foster.”

  I grab Janie’s arm. I have no heat at my place, or I’d take her there. Hell, I might not even have a place in a few months. Still. “Janie…”

  She shakes her head, face pale but stubborn as rocks. “I’m not a child, Sam. I can do math. And I can take care of myself too.”

  Mrs. Leonards turns her face, but I catch the glistening tears pooling there. And the bruise. She has no more choice than any of us. Money is money.

  “Give me two days,” I tell them both, then turn into the wind.

  “Samantha, don’t,” Janie calls, but now it’s my turn to shake my head. I can take care of myself too, and the risk-reward ratio just shifted. Before I can change my mind, I pull out my phone and dial Ellis’s number.

  Ten thousand dollars to retrieve an heirloom jewelry box from an empty mansion. One night’s work. Plenty of reward for the risk. That’s what I keep telling myself as I ignore the towering ivy-covered stone monstrosity above me and slide my knife along the windowpane, the thin blade guiding me right to the lock.

  As usual, I don’t pause to question why this comes so easily to me—why picking locks, hiding from pursuers, confusing security guards, and charming German shepherds all feel about as natural as breathing—and I especially don’t pause to feel guilty about it.

  A piercing howl suddenly shatters the night’s silence, making me fumble my tools. I suppress a loud curse, pausing to let my heartbeat slow back down. This enclave is forested, sure, but it’s still on the lush green outskirts of Upper Montclair, New Jersey’s richest zip code, and the nearest houses are only a quarter mile away. Not wolf country. But who knows with these disgustingly rich types—the idiot owner probably bought and settled them here for his own entertainment.

  My breath mists before my face in the chill, the puffs still coming steadily despite my slowly rising pulse. Closing my eyes, I move the tip of the blade inside the locking mechanism until the click of a spring giving way echoes softly in welcome. Sheathing the knife in my boot, I gently remove the windowpane, pausing for a moment just in case I’m wrong. In case the window is alarmed after all.

  Not that the elite would ever bother to ask the thieves, but if I owned a mansion like this, set deep within a cul de sac well off the main roads, I’d have twenty-four seven armed security, let alone an alarm system. A private system, which would lead to some private company and not the police. Then again, maybe if I lived in a place like this, the police would give a damn about me.

  Setting the windowpane on the ground beside the wall, I pull myself over the sill and into the silent house—and suppress a gasp. Even in the dark, it’s astonishing. Ceilings so high, they disappear into the dark, four walls entirely lined with books. The moonlight glints off what look like huge stained-glass Tiffany lamps on each side table, just waiting to be plucked on by a lucky reader.

  Even though I watched the place for the entire day just to make sure it was as empty as Ellis claimed, being here still gives me the chills. A counterbalance to the heat his memory sends through me, no matter how much I try to ignore it. Men like Ellis—men who are gorgeous and powerful and know it—are a little too used to getting their way. By any means necessary.

  I think of Joey and remind myself that, actually, good looks are not even necessary.

  Concentrate, Sam. Pulling my attention back to the quiet mansion, I note the slowly blinking red lights. So there is an alarm—just a poorly installed one. So long as I don’t cross the line between the two sensors, I’ll be fine.

  This isn’t my typical gig. Clients who can afford such homes can afford lawyers and private investigators and personal shoppers. Those who come to me to liberate items of interest aren’t the ones who can afford to work inside the law—usually desperate souls who pawned away some heirloom and need it back, or need to get their stuff back from an ex who is too quick with his fists. Last week, I stole a back a little pit bull puppy, cuddling him inside my leather jacket as I got myself the hell out of the cesspool he was going to grow up in.

  Dark dank places that the police wouldn’t go near even if the whole neighborhood sent up a flare with directions. Newark’s underbelly, that I can handle. The boys in blue, on the other hand—well, meeting with Newark’s finest never ends well for a foster system brat who just can’t appreciate her second chance properly. Even though I aged out of it a few years back, the memories are branded on me. Memories of what really happens to those who have no money to speak for them.

  Literally. Opening and closing my palm over a star-shaped scar, I shake my head and remember why I’m doing this.

  Clicking on my headlamp, I move into what looks like a sprawling sitting room, tripping on the rug as another guttural howl splits the air. Though I know the animal is far off, a shiver runs down my back. I feel like I’m being watched. When I turn back to the window, there’s nothing there—though a flick of white fur between the trees confirms I got the wolf part right.

  Worry less about the wolf and more about the mark, Sam.

  Taking a deep breath of dust, I survey the living room with my red-tinted light, less visible from outside than the usual flashlight. Shit. The place is like a museum, complete with a gleaming grand piano and antique furniture that alone is likely worth millions. At the wall-to-wall mahogany wet bar, several dozen whiskey and scotch bottles preen in my light. I catch labels that can only have been bought directly in Scotland—at least a hundred years ago. Everything seems old, for that matter. Not just antique, but old-fashioned, like I’ve suddenly stepped into a different time.

  On a whim, I hit one of the piano keys. It isn’t dusty, but the sound is so out of tune, it makes me wince. A school music teacher once said that I had perfect pitch Actually, he said perfect pitch was wasted on me, but the concept’s the same.

  I let go of the piano key, my chest tightening. Something about this whole setup suddenly feels wrong. My gut yells at me to get the hell out, while my brain tries to talk down the panic. I’m already here, and it’s ten thousand dollars.

  And then there is another voice, a warm, coaxing whisper that brushes my mind, stroking my name.

  Sam. Sam. Sam.

  3

  Sam

  I twist around, my knife in my hand, ready to defend myself against… against what? My fucking imagination? Eyes moving, I stay very still, listening for any movement. Nothing. Only a nagging feeling in the back of my ribs, right at the spine. Shaking myself, I start up the sweeping grand staircase to the second floor. A jewelry box sounds like something one would keep in a bedroom, right?

  The stairs creak beneath my light steps, spurring my heart to a faster beat. Stepping onto the carpeted floor, I pass all the closed doors on either side of the dark corridor and open the one at the very end. I go there first because it’s where I’d put the master bedroom.

  Not because something in there is tugging at me. Singing sweetly to me. Reeling me in with whispers of my name.

  Because if that were true, I’d need to run out of here and check myself directly into an insane asylum.

  Sam.

  Pushing open the door, I feel a gust of cold wind biting my face. Whoever came in to dust the piano without tuning it also left the window half-open. And there I was complaining about the poor quality of the downstairs window locks.

  That feeling of being watched washes over me again, as it did outside the house. I twist around quickly, my gaze brushing past the four-poster bed. The car
ved armoire. The mirrored vanity. The—

  The very large snow-white dog with yellow eyes who watches me from the corner of the room, a curious tilt to his massive head.

  Shit.

  My breath stops. Don’t run, Sam, I tell myself desperately. Move slowly. Very slowly.

  The dog blinks at me, then, with a decisive huff, thumps his tail against the priceless rug and lies down. Laying his massive head on his front paws, the monster seems resolved to simply observe my burglary.

  I let out a breath of relief. A box. I need to find the box and get the hell out. Box.

  Sam. As if summoned by my back-to-business thoughts, that whispering in the back of my head sounds again. Sam. Sam.

  My heart jumps. This time, the whispers are louder and clearer than before, phantom hands pulling me toward the vanity. To the top drawer that slides open on silent rails with the slightest tug of my fingers, until a small iron box, covered with beautifully filigreed flames, fills the whole of my vision. I reach for it, cradling its heavy weight in my palms, a wave of contentment spreading through me as I reach toward the delicate clasp.

  “Well done, Samantha.” Ellis’s smooth lilting voice, which is most certainly not inside my head, freezes me in place. His voice, and the sharp point of a blade pressed into the back of my neck. “Now, don’t turn. Don’t make a single move.” The small sting against my skin increases as he puts pressure on the blade with one hand, the other palm extending into my field of vision. “Just place the box in my hand.”

  Right.

  Swallowing a curse, I do as instructed—or try to, the whatever-it-is inside the box suddenly screeching desperately inside my soul. Not an angry screech, but a pitiful frightened cry, like a puppy abandoned outside in a rainstorm.

  The damn box has an opinion. Given how this evening is going, I’m not even sure why I’m surprised anymore.

  “Give it to me, Samantha,” Ellis says behind me, my name rolling off his silken tongue, his warm breath and clean forest scent brushing my skin. “Don’t get stupid.”

  No. No. No. The whimpering inside the box tears into my heart as I start to hand the loot over. I pause. The something whines with relief.

  “Do you hear it too?” I ask Ellis, because why not.

  He snorts derisively. “If I did, I wouldn’t need your help now, would I?”

  Oh. That clears it up. My left hand tightening around the box, I don’t give myself a chance to think before I step forward and twist toward Ellis, slashing the nails of my free hand across his face.

  He flinches—actually fucking flinches—his yellow-tinged eyes widening with shock as he fingers the thin red scratches now running down his cheek. Even now, he looks tantalizing, his pale hair glowing almost silver in the moonlight, his sculpted body the kind you can’t just grow in a gym. His brows pull together. “How the bloody hell did you—no!”

  His curiosity gives way to a sharp command as I open the box in my hands. Inside, a bloodred ruby sits nestled within a bed of black velvet, roughly the size and shape of a large egg.

  I reach for it, and the gem purrs with happiness.

  “Stop,” Ellis barks, shoulders poised for a strike. Our eyes meet. Hold. His shift from yellow to an impossible metallic gold in the moonlight. “Do. Not. Touch it.”

  I swallow, my gaze taking in his tall, muscular body, every fiber in it coiled for battle. I’ve been hit enough times to know when there is no getting out of a blow, that this man has me in checkmate. My muscles brace, my breathing stilling in my chest as my back hunches slightly. I know exactly what’s coming. That it will hurt. That I can do nothing to stop it.

  And then I grab the ruby egg anyway.

  The audacity of my choice is apparently as surprising to Ellis as it is to me, because the man’s arm stutters, the knife skimming off my leather jacket.

  I don’t wait for him to correct his error.

  Stuffing the ruby into the pocket of my leather jacket, I launch myself out the open window, taking my chances with a jump off a second floor over the probability of Ellis missing another blow. My pulse rises as I hang off the windowsill by my fingers, judging the drop and thanking whatever deity built the house on a hill.

  Then I let go, hitting the soft grass with enough force to make the world blink—and just in time to see the flashing lights of half a dozen police cruisers pulling up toward the house.

  Apparently, the alarm system works after all.

  Fuck.

  4

  Sam

  I am insane.

  That is the only reasonable explanation I can come up with as I sit in Essex County’s interview room, my left arm cuffed to a railing on the wall. The overhead florescent lights make the puke-green walls seem shiny, and I wonder who thought it would be a cheery idea to bother adding a white stripe accent to the color scheme. At least this room smells of bleach, which is an improvement over my cell.

  “Ms. Devinee.” Mr. Bryant, the public defender assigned to my case, straightens a jacket that’s a great deal too expensive for a place like this. Large and suave, with thick, blond, gelled-back hair and blue eyes, he seems like he’d be unintimidated by any manner of client—not that I’m much of a threat. At a scant five foot three, my only advantage on the streets of Newark is that I’m freakishly good at blending in—and can fit in hiding places most bullies wouldn’t even glance at. “Ms. Devinee, I need you to give me something to work with here. Something that’s backed up with evidence. Whether or not you share their sentiment, the police like their evidence.”

  His accent is rich, cultured, with a faint hint of an upper-crust, like he was born in a well-to-do family. Most of the public defenders I’ve run across look ten years older than they are, with a severe coffee addiction and a heart way too big for their own good. This guy looks like he’s never missed a wink of sleep his whole life, let alone brewed his own coffee. I gesture to his gold cuff links, my own cuffs clinking against the table. “I thought PDs didn’t make any money.”

  “Ms. Devinee—”

  “Family inheritance? Or maybe a side hustle.”

  Instead of losing his cool, he merely waits, one blond eyebrow lifted.

  Impressive.

  I tap my slippered toe again the table leg, which is bolted into the floor, the rough fabric of my blue-green scrubs scratching my skin. I wouldn’t mind evidence myself just now, but try as I might, I have no explanation for what prompted me to try to steal that ruby a week ago.

  Somehow “it asked me to take it” doesn’t have the same ring to it the morning after.

  “A man named Ellis promised me ten thousand dollars to break into what I thought was an empty mansion,” I tell Mr. Bryant for the fifth time. “Except it wasn’t empty. When I came to the bedroom, Ellis was there. He tried to kill me, but I jumped out the window before he could. That’s when I got arrested. I gave the police Ellis’s description already. And his number.”

  “The number you gave us led to a pizza place, Ms. Devinee.” The attorney sighs, shuffling through the stack of paper in front of him. “As for this Ellis… I’ve looked over the police report. The police had the house surrounded and searched. There was no one else there except a dog who ran out the door and into the forest. Do you have an explanation?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Let’s go back to the evidence. Talk to me about the heroin, Ms. Devinee. I’m here to help you, and I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me. If you can tell the cops the name of your dealer, maybe wear a wire…”

  My jaw clenches, my palm slamming the table. “If you want a name of a dealer, ask whichever cop planted the drugs on me. I don’t sell narcotics, and I definitely don’t put that shit into my body. I don’t know how you want me to prove a negative.”

  Bryant straightens his papers, the task taking all his attention. “Ms. Devinee—Samantha—let me be up front with you,” he says finally. “You broke into the wrong house. The owner is throwing everything at you, and he has the money to back it up. You
r tox screen came back showing you were high as a kite that day—which, frankly, explains both the hallucinations about this Ellis and the half a kilo of product inside your jacket. If you would like me to go to the judge with ‘a nonexistent man told me to meet him at an expensive house, drugged me, and planted heroin on me before turning into a dog,’ I will. After which, you will be heading to federal prison with a mandatory ten-year minimum.”

  Bile rises up my throat as the world narrows around me. A part of me wants to cry, but I don’t, clenching my nails into my palms as I always do to control my emotions. Finally, I raise my head to look Bryant right in the eye, because my pride is all I have left. “I notice the ruby is missing from the police report. Convenient for whoever took it from my pocket, don’t you think?”

  “No, Samantha.” Bryant’s tone hardens. “I’m done playing games. It wasn’t a ruby, it was heroin. A very large amount of it. And if you aren’t going to turn on your dealer—”

  “I don’t have a dealer. It wasn’t my her—”

  “Then you are looking at a life behind bars for a very long time. Do you understand me?”

  My jaw tightens. Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I just can’t do anything about it. I broke my own rule, trusted Ellis at his word. I took a job I shouldn’t have. And now I have nothing. Not for me, not for Janie and Mrs. Leonards.

  “Samantha, are you listening?”

  “Yes. I understand. I’m screwed. Can I go back to my cell now?” My words are calm, but the need to run and hide in a dark corner as I lick my wounds is anything but. Fear and desperation course through my blood, making me hot and cold at the same time. My mouth is dry, my stomach clenching. I’m at my limit, and I know I’m going to break down anytime now. I just don’t want it to be here.