Stolen(52)

Touchdown!

Spurred on by her unqualified success—the window had shattered to bits—she made quick work of clearing away the glass stalactites and stalagmites from the windowsill with her jacketed arm. Then she removed her dusty boots and crawled through the window into Cayman’s bedroom in her stocking feet.

Center stage, the football nestled in the gray shag carpet, announcing to all the world that the only foul play here had been that of a rowdy neighbor kid with bad aim.

She drew the curtains across the broken window, and they lifted in the breeze. Lucky for her the high masonry fence surrounding the backyard kept her safe from view.

What next?

If she was careful, no one would ever know she’d been here. The football explained the broken window, and Cayman might not realize what she’d stolen for ages, and even then he’d probably think he’d simply misplaced it. Determined to leave no trace behind, she hurried into the bathroom and found a clean washcloth. She didn’t have gloves, but she could make do with this instead.

Back in the bedroom, she wiped down the windowsill and the adjacent wall in case she’d left a palm print. Using the cloth, she pulled open the top dresser drawer then carefully sorted through its contents: Socks. Boxers. A dirty magazine—one of the tamer kind that ran a lot of celebrity interviews.

A deep, dark fear that she didn’t want to face, surfaced for the second time that day, then quickly evaporated like steam from a boiling pot.

Cayman couldn’t be her monster.

Such a beast would require more twisted fare than a garden-variety girlie mag to satisfy his carnal urges. She slipped the magazine back into place and moved on.

Drawer after drawer left her disappointed. She didn’t know why Cayman would hide it, but in case he had she should try the obvious places. She dragged the mattress off the bed and was left huffing and sneezing from the effort.

Nothing but dust mites under here.

And now she had to deal with the mess she’d made. With weary arms, she shoved and tugged the mattress back into place. She jerked the sheets up and smoothed them. Had the bed been neatly made, or had the covers been pulled up in a jumble? She couldn’t remember. If she was lucky, neither would Cayman.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She should’ve checked the closet before wrestling with that mattress. Something to think about the next time she broke into someone’s bedroom! With her rag in hand once again, she stepped into the walk-in. His closet was full, containing clothing for all seasons. This was no spur-of-the-moment trip. So he really had been here, watching her, all along. She batted her worry away, and rifled through all the pockets of his pants and jackets. When she came across a wad of cash, she opened and closed her fist around it three, four times, before making up her mind and stuffing the bills in her pocket. Funds were running low, and she didn’t know how long she’d be on the run.

She glanced at her bare wrist, realizing she had no clue how much time had passed. At least now she could buy that watch.

Hurry!

Tiptoeing up she stretched her neck, trying to get a good view of the top shelf. The absence of dust in one spot told her something rectangular had been shoved to the rear. She dragged a hard-shell suitcase over and stood on it.

Yes!

She’d been right.

A box had been shoved to the back of the shelf.

An ordinary shoe box.

Probably containing ordinary shoes.

Extending her arm, she wiggled her fingers but couldn’t quite reach her goal. With a hanger, she coaxed the box toward her. Finally, she got her fingertips under the lip and fished the thing off the shelf. She lost her balance. One foot came off the suitcase, and she bumped her head against the wall, making her brain zing with pain.

When she touched her scalp, she was relieved to note that although it was sore and a goose-egg was already beginning to from, her hand came away free of blood. She carried the box to the bed she’d just made and sat down, cradling the contraband in her lap. The box felt lightweight, not what you’d expect if it contained a pair of men’s shoes.

She closed her eyes.

Please. Pease. Please.

Let it be here.

She sucked in a breath, and then opened her eyes and the box at the same moment.

Her spirits soared.

She might really be able to stop the monster after all. The status of her mission had just been upgraded from snowball’s chance to highly unlikely because lying right on top of a bunch of odds and ends was what she’d been seeking: the thread she needed to connect the dots in her memory.

Cayman’s passports.

As she turned the pages, her fingers tingled with excitement. She flipped through them, touching each stamp reverently. It was everything she’d hoped to find.

Because Cayman’s travels were her travels.