Page 68 of Princess of Thieves

“Okay, so I’ve got everything transferred over,” she says after another minute of typing. With quick, birdlike movements, she piles a bunch of brochures and info sheets into a green paper folder, tucking in a printout as it streams from the box to her right and swiping a shiny new debit card through her mag reader before tucking it in as well. “You should be good to go! You can set up online access with the info in here, and you can use the ATM just outside with your new card if you need to.” Her smile is bright again, and she hands over the folder with a look of pride like it’s the tiara and I’m Miss America.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting it from her. Will glances at me, his jaw tight, clearly ready to leave, and LJ’s practically vibrating with impatience, but I ignore them both for a second and swing out the doors on my own.

The air is blazing and damp compared to the chill of the aircon inside, but I still give a little shiver. I flip open my folder and glide a finger over the smooth surface of my new debit card as the guys hustle out behind me.

It’s mine. Finally, it’s mine.

Feeling bold, I walk over to the ATM.

“Maren,” Will warns quietly, but I wave him off.

I slip the card into the machine, punch in the temporary PIN, and wait as the screen loads. When the balance appears, I freeze.

$2,041,237.

My breath catches.

Twomilliondollars?

“Holy...” LJ breathes over my shoulder. I whirl around, defensive, like I’m suddenly worried he’s going to snatch it away. But he doesn’t, just steps away and gives me some berth.

“Hey, hey, easy, Princess,” he says. “I’m happy for you. Just...damn. Just surprised.”

Will, for his part, darts a nonchalant glance at the screen and lets out a low whistle.

“My goodness,” he says. “Well done, greasemonkey. Well done.”

The ATM beeps for my attention—would you like to continue your transaction?—and I withdraw forty bucks just to ground myself, feeling like I’m in a dream. The machine spits out the bills, and I’m reaching for them when Will grabs my arm.

“Sheriff’s car. Across the street,” he says, his voice low but urgent.

LJ stiffens. “We need to go.”

The air leaves my lungs all at once, and the rush of confidence vanishes. I glance across the way—sure enough, a cruiser is parked near the corner, too close for comfort.

“We need to go,” LJ repeats, his voice low and urgent.

I don’t argue. I slip the twenties and card into my pocket and follow them to where we parked at a brisk but hopefully inconspicuous clip, my legs barely keeping up as we make a sharp turn down the alley. The cash in my pocket feels heavier than it should, and my mind races as fast as my feet.

Two million dollars. Twomilliondollars.

I knew Mama and Daddy were well off—comfortable,they would have said—but I didn’t know they were multi-millionaire comfortable.

And now, impossibly, I am too.

Will’s hand is firm on my arm as he pulls me toward the car, silver hair slipping into his eyes. LJ is already sliding into the front seat, and I barely manage to scramble into the back before the engine roars to life.

“Let’s go,” Will says under his breath, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. His voice is calm, but his foot slams the gashard. We peel out of the alleyway, tires squealing, kicking up dust onto the back streets of Nottingham. We zip through an intersection—“that light was orange,” Will insists—and hang a sharp left to avoid a backup at the next one, eventually zigzagging our way to the edge of town.

I stare out the window, hands tense as I grip the leather beneath me, and watch the buildings blur into trees and then fields. My heart’s pounding, the fact of the two million dollars still sitting heavy in my chest, but I don’t dare say anything now—like I don’t want to jinx it, like I’ve actually committed a crime and need to be in the clear before I can look at the two bills stuffed in my pocket.

The engine keens and whines as it whirls through gears, blasting us down the dusty spine of a few rolling, rural hills, headed toward the forest.

“We’re good,” LJ mutters from the front, arms folded like he’s already checked out of the situation. “No one’s on us.”

For a second, I think he’s right. The road stretches ahead of us, empty, a straight shot to the dense line of pines that’s home free.

But then the sound cuts through the quiet—the shriek of a siren.

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