Page 22 of Princess of Thieves

That’s all I need to get out of today. One little piece of paper. On the scale of things I’ve done over the past few weeks, it barely ranks.

So why am I so anxious?

The sheriff’s men have cordoned off one of the large fields in a park on the outskirts of town, near one of the baseball diamonds, as temporary parking. Guy slows the Range Rover, the tires crunching, and rolls down his window as we approachthe deputy directing traffic. My spine stiffens, skin prickling. The deputy is young, with deep brown skin and a face that could be kind behind his mirrored sunglasses, but I know better than to trust him, and the hard set of his jaw indicates the feeling would probably be mutual.

“Mr. Gisbourne,” the deputy nods, thumbing the brim of his cap. “Straight ahead,” he says, pointing, “and just to the right, you can park under that oak tree. Should be enough shade.”

“Thank you kindly,” Guy says.

For a minute, I assume the deputy hasn’t even seen me through the tinted windows of the Range Rover. But as Guy rolls his window up, the mirrored shades flick to my window.

“Miss,” he says with another nod.

The tone is less than friendly. It’s more an indication that he’s seen me, and he wants me toknowhe’s seen me. I shiver in spite of myself. With Guy driving me, I shouldn’t have anything to worry about from the sheriff’s men now that I’m this poor little trafficked girl freed from the influence of her slimy uncle.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like them.

We park and head to the center of town, where the bright white cupola stands like a little Christmas ornament, and a marching band is playing a patriotic medley. I make a mental map of the area as we approach. Town Hall is on the other side of the main festival grounds, which are spread throughout Jefferson Davis Park, directly facing Main Street.

The sun hangs high above the Fourth of July festival in Nottingham, baking the smell of kettle corn and barbecue into the air. Laughter and chatter fill the space, families wandering from booth to booth while kids dart between the stands, clutching balloons. I stay a few paces behind Guy, letting him do what he does best—smile, shake hands, charm the town like he’s some benevolent lord overseeing his kingdom.

“Here, Maren.” Guy hands me a little trinket from one of the booths—a carved wooden bird, its wings outstretched in flight. It’s beautiful, I suppose, but kind of an ironic metaphor.

No. Don’t be snarky.So I just smile and thank him, slipping it into my pocket without much thought. He’s already moved on to the next stand, busying himself with small talk and gestures that don’t really mean anything. I glance around, trying to distract myself from how out of place I feel and how desperately I want to sprint for the horizon.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a man in his late forties, face flushed with embarrassment, counting out quarters—one by one—onto the counter of a food stall. His daughter stands beside him, eyes wide, too young to understand what’s happening but old enough to feel the discomfort in the air. He finishes counting, hands trembling slightly as he hands over just enough to cover a small funnel cake.

A few feet away, a woman tries to swipe her card at another stand. The machine beeps angrily, and her face falls. The vendor hands it back to her, apologetic but firm. “Declined,” he says softly, though I know the shame that follows her is anything but soft. She mumbles an excuse, something about needing to check her balance, and quickly shuffles away, her head low.

I bite my lip, feeling a knot twist tighter in my stomach.

I don’t want to be here.

Guy’s still browsing like nothing’s wrong, happily considering knick-knacks and snacks without even glancing at the prices. I stand there, feeling hollow.

Just ahead of me, a little girl pulls on her mother’s sleeve, pointing eagerly at the carousel. “Please, Mama? Can we go on the horses?” Her face is bright with hope.

Her mother kneels down and speaks softly, but I catch every word. “I’m sorry, honey. Not today.”

The girl’s face falls, her lip quivering. “You always say no,” she pouts.

The mother smiles sadly, brushing a hand through the girl’s hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Something sharp settles in my chest. I turn away, unable to look at them any longer. It’s one thing to know that people are struggling—something that’s become impossible to ignore the more time I spend here—but seeing it firsthand, laid out in front of me, makes my skin crawl. While the rich people at Guy’s fundraiser throw money around like confetti, the people of Nottingham are counting coins, swiping cards they know won’t go through, apologizing to their kids for not having enough. And these are the same people who go to sleep at night worrying about their homes being taken away—about what happens if they can’t make the next payment.

A fire starts to smolder in my chest. How is any of this okay? How can someone like Guy pretend to be this town’s savior, walking around in his pressed suit with his fancy words, when people are barely scraping by?

I look at him, standing tall and confident, smiling without a care in the world. It makes me sick.

But I don’t say anything. Not yet.

I just grit my teeth, swallow the growing rage, and force myself to smile as he approaches again.

“Ready?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Guy sweeps me away from the fair booths with an easy arm around my shoulders, his usual charm masking how he’s steering me where he wants. I barely register it as we make our way toward the archery range.

The field is set up neatly, lines drawn in the grass marking the shooting lanes. Targets are positioned at a good distance, concentric rings painted in vibrant colors, with the yellow bullseye standing out in the center. Stands line the side of thefield, offering shade from the sun. I follow Guy up to a covered seating area reserved for “special guests”—which, as always, just means rich people. Politicians, local business moguls, people who sip mint juleps and couldn’t give two shits if a working class dad can’t afford to buy his daughter some carnival food. Hell, for all I know, these are the fuckers charging five bucks for funnel cake.

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