Page 65 of Princess of Thieves

“We’re burning daylight,” Will says. “C’mon, Maren.”

“YOU’VE GOT YOUR PICKof the litter,” Will says as we stride into the garage.

I can’t deny, I do feel a little giddy at the prospect of cars.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to pick,” I say.

“Maybe we can do a process of elimination,” he says. “I don’t want to drive something boring.”

My mind flashes to the first day I met him, back in old man MacAllister’s garage, when I thought he was just some arrogant Yankee who didn’t know how to take care of his car. Now, well, I don’t think too differently of him, granted—but I do in the ways that count.

“We should just take a bike,” LJ mutters.

“Oh, because that’s inconspicuous, Mr. Revs-His-Engine-Every-Breath-He-Takes,” Will says.

“Gets out of there fast when it needs to,” LJ says. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“All right, quit sniping,” I say. “LJ, can you find me a hat and some sunglasses or something?”

LJ cocks his head at me slightly. “I thought we weren’t sticking the place up.”

“We’re not,” I say. “I just want to look inconspicuous if I have to wait in line or something.”

He nods, his footsteps pounding up the stairs. I sweep my gaze over the array of cars. There are a few new ones since I was last working on the fleet. God knows where he comes up withthese things. The chassis are gleaming, even in the low light of the garage, arranged like a row of candies.

“God, it kills me not to pick this one,” I say, skimming a finger over the hood of a Maserati.

“What d’you mean? Your average Nottingham residentisn’ttooling around in an Italian sports car?” Will says, bending over to peer at the headlights. He shakes his head. “Yeah. Good call.”

“Probably American-made is best,” I go on. “These people are patriots, after all. Can’t have none of that foreign manufacture in our garage.”

“You just say that because you’re biased toward Mustangs,” Will says. “A Ford girl to the end. I’m surprised you don’t have the logo tattooed on your lower back.”

My heart pangs as he says it. I realize I have no idea where that car is. No idea where the one thing I had from my dad for years and years has ended up—impounded at best, a scrap heap at worst. But either way, the odds of me ever getting it back don’t seem good. Probably best not to think about it, as painful as that is.

“How about this bad boy?” I say, tapping the hood of a Challenger, recent model. “Not a Ford, but...” I shrug. “It’ll do.”

“Suits me,” Will says. “I’m driving, and I’m not taking arguments.” He points at me as he walks over to the wall with the keys hanging on pegs. “Last thing we need is you getting pulled over for no license. Again.”

I grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

“These work?” LJ asks, emerging down the stairs. He’s got a pair of aviators in one hand and a black ball cap with a gold fleur-de-lis on it in the other.

“You’re gonna make her wear a Saints cap? Really?” Will snorts.

“It’s all I have,” LJ explains. “And I want to show a little hometown pride now and again.”

The drive to the bank is surprisingly pleasant, even though it’s a muggy summer day. Once we exit, I pull my hair into a ponytail using one of the thousands of hair ties Rob bought me way back when and thread it through the back of the hat LJ gave me. With that and the sunglasses on, I look—well, not totally incognito, but maybe not so conspicuous that you’d pick me out of a literal lineup.

A sudden realization hits me, and I poke my head forward through the two front seats. Will has his window open and his elbow out, driving with one hand. He glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re thinking about going all Patty Hearst,” he says.

“What? No.” I shake my head. “I just realized that if I’m this ‘poor missing person,’ then won’t the bank call me in when I show up?”

Will doesn’t say anything. He glances at LJ, who strokes his jaw.

“They might,” LJ says, “but it’s not like your account is flagged for anything suspicious, right?”

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