Page 59 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Outside, a car speeds by.
If I was the paranoid type—which I am, professionally—I’d assume they moved the artwork to a different location, and I’d bolt out of here. But knowing the owners, there’s a good chance they were too cocky to bother.Who robs a gallery with an open window, right?
I move silently towards the back storage room and pull out my lockpicking kit. Five clicks later, the door eases open.
And, like I suspected, the storage room is filled with hubris and stacked canvases. Some wrapped, some bare. They’re all here. I step inside, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, scanning for something that looks old enough.
My fingers skim frames until I find it—an oil painting with cracked varnish and faded colors. Dated 1529. Perfect. I hold it up in an attempt to see better.
Which is when I hear a noise behind me.
Someone clicks their tongue in disapproval. “See, I was wondering if you’d be dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime—to finish what you started.”
Fuck.
I know that voice.
It’s the last one I wanted to hear today.
“The boss wanted to move the paintings, but I insisted we leave them. This way, we’d catch you red-handed.” He takes a step towards the storage room. “Although I’m thinking I might stop you myself. Be a bit of a hero. I promise to call the cops after I’m done with you. They can call the ambulance.”
I glance over my shoulder, the blade of a knife sparkling in the sliver of light breaking through the newspaper.
My body tenses, instincts kicking in.
I know I can take him, despite the knife giving him the edge.
But if he stabs me, my blood would implicate me at the scene. Of the vandalism and the theft.
Shit.
This is what happens when you rush your crimes.
Just as I pivot, a loud bang cracks through the air—and suddenly my adversary crumbles like a poorly built IKEA cupboard. Lights out. Almost.
I look up to see Helena, or rather her eyes that are peeking out of the yellow ski mask. They’re squeezed shut from the loud sound. She’s holding my wooden cutting board in her hand like a weapon. Now we need to move. I shove the painting into Helena’s empty hand, step onto the knife before the dazed asshole can reach it, then grab him by his collar and knock him out with a single punch.
That’s for the knife. And because we obviously can’t have him chasing us.
Then I grab another painting that’s leaning against the wall and motion for Helena to run.
Thirty seconds later, we’re back in the RV, tearing through random turns to make sure we’re not being followed.
When things calm down, I glance at Helena. “I thought I told you to stay put.”
“And I thought you were going to steal justonepainting.” She’s wrapping them in a blanket and wedges them between our seats.
I want to yell. But I don’t.
This is on me.
She actually did well.
She shouldn’t have come inside, but she did help.
“Next time, stay where it’s safe.”
I can’t put her in this situation again—one where recklessness might seem like her only option. After what happened to her grandpa, and then to her, she’s running on fumes and fear, making choices she’d never consider otherwise.Helena needs protection not just from whoever’s demanding the money, but from herself.
