Page 16 of Princess of Thieves

I don’t have time to perseverate much more. On the right column of the screen is Guy’s calendar. He’s in a meeting right now, apparently. Perfect. I look at the email once more, copy the reply-to address, and paste it into a new window.

Dawn, I type,Thanks for your assistance with the Sanders case. I have a few new documents I need regarding the charges against John Lackland. Can you pull a copy of a birth certificate for one Maren de Mornay? Prefer a certified copy as quickly as you can. Thank you. Regards, Guy.

I scan the email text one last time, then delete the “thank you.” For whatever reason, that sounds a little too far like something he wouldn’t say.

With a few clicks, I figure out how to set up a filter on this thread: no notifications when or if Dawn replies, and any replies will go straight to his archive. I’ll just have to keep tabs on this...somehow...and figure out where the certificate will end up. But still, it feels like a victory, it feels like.

Clearing my throat, I hit send and right-click on the conversation thread.Voila.

As the email whooshes to send, I look to the rest of the desktop, on the off chance that there’s anything else useful for me here, and one folder happens to catch my eye:Gisbourne Campaign Files.

Okay, so maybe I’m a nosy bitch, but I can’t help it. I still don’t feel like I know too much about who this dude is. I don’t want todistrust him, because that would make me a grade-A dumbass for accepting anything from him, but I’m also not sure Icantrust him.

So the more I learn about him, the better.

I double-click the folder and open it up. Inside are a bunch of documents, headshots, flyers, and a couple of drafts of what appear to be speeches. Curious, I click one open and skim it. It’s a whole lot about defending the law, serving the public, taking on the mantle of responsibility for Sherwood, blah, blah, blah—the kind of thing you’d say at a campaign stop for a stump speech.

Which, now that I think about it...

I click back to some of the graphics.Vote Gisbourne. Support Guy. I want to earn your vote.

So he’s a politician, I think, an instinctive coil of distrust tightening in my stomach. Well, that figures. Browsing a little more, I put the pieces together: he’s running for District Attorney—the head of the office. The chief prosecutor for all of Sherwood. Guy’s current boss. Apparently the sitting DA is about a thousand years old and retiring, but hasn’t announced it yet, and Guy’s eager to fill his shoes.

Well, that pretty much figures. He doesn’t strike me as the type who’d be happy being assistantanythingfor too long. And I have to admit, looking at all the photos of him in the traditional politician’s blue button-down with rolled-up sleeves to the elbow, he does look the part. Maybe he needs a touch more gray around the temples, that plus a beautiful wife, 2.5 kids, and a Golden Retriever. But I guess he has to start somewhere. My eyes drift to a file titled DRAFT BIO, and I click it open eagerly.

Guy is a native son of Sherwood County, Virginia, it begins.

I roll my eyes. Oh, brother. I’m a native daughter, but you don’t hear me bragging about it. Then again, I guess if you want to win these people’s votes, you’ve got to appeal to their sense of local pride.

For whatever reason, that makes me think of what Rob said weeks ago, how people in Sherwood were too proud just to take handouts. Does Guy understand that? Does he want to help them, too? I guess with the right people in office, it would be possible. But the right people haven’t held office around here since before I can remember; it’s always been the sheriff and his crew.

I swallow and keep reading. St. Michael’s Prep, Georgetown, UVA. Hobbies: golfing, sailing, hunting. Believes in the practice of law, in the pursuit of justice, not for personal gain.Well, that’s a nice change, I think.

Guy is proud to live just outside of his hometown of Nottingham with his fiancée.

A shiver cuts through me at that last sentence.

Disappointment? God, no, that can’t be it.

Surprise, certainly.

Because if he has a fiancée...where is she?

Another shiver, this one colder.

I’d asked point-blank why he wasn’t married, and he basically dodged the question.

Maybe his fiancée’s the jealous type, wouldn’t like another woman in the house.

Maybe she’s just...out of town.

Maybe she’s—

The doorknob swivels, and the lock beeps.

“Shit, fuck,” I whisper. I jump up from the desk, wondering how quickly I can duck underneath it and if that’s even a good hiding place. But before I can, Rosa glides in the door, a vacuum cleaner trailing after her, and I freeze. She doesn’t see me at first. She’s wearing headphones, I realize, but it only takes a moment for her to look up and see me at the desk. Her mouth flies open.

“Wait,” I say, getting to my feet. “I can explain.”

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