"THAT WAS CLOSE"
Last evening, I told Aunt Serena I wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be joining them for dinner. She'd hovered for a minute, concern laced in her voice, asking if I wanted something light—a broth, maybe tea. I mumbled a sleepy no and stayed curled beneath the covers like I was slipping into a fever dream.
Once I heard her footsteps fade toward the dining room, I waited a few more seconds. Then, slowly, I peeled back the sheets.
No shoes. Just my thigh-high socks brushing against the cold wooden floor. My heartbeat thudded in my ears as I crept to the door and cracked it open. The hallway was still.
Perfect.
Their bedroom was just down the hall.
Every step felt like a thunderclap. I held my breath, slipped toward their room, and turned the knob as gently as I could.
It opened with a soft click.
The room was drenched in quiet luxury—like a magazine spread from some antique interior design dream. A deep, dark wooden bed dominated the center. A large, polished dresser gleamed under the chandelier's soft glow. There were sofas with intricate carvings, a mirror taller than me, and paintings on the wall that looked like they belonged in a museum.
The wallpaper was a rich, earthy emerald green—beautiful, but oppressive, like velvet closing in.
I just need two dollars. Just two.
I know I could ask Aunt Serena. She probably wouldn't refuse. But she'd ask why, and I had no excuse lined up. Cade would be passing by again soon, and I have to pay him. As for the butterfly in the jar I hid it behind those dolls.
I rifled through drawers—empty. The closet? Nothing but suits and scarves that smelled like rich cologne and damn they have good taste in cologne as well.
Then I spotted her purse on the dresser.
Please.
I unzipped it. Lip gloss. A couple rings. Some credit cards. And there it was—folded neatly. A few dollars. Just sitting there, waiting to be stolen.
I grabbed them, shoved them into my pocket, and bolted for the door.
My palms were sweaty. My throat dry.
I stepped into the hallway—
And slammed straight into someone.
My heart lurched.
Uncle Ethan.
He looked down at me, arms crossed loosely, dressed in a navy polo shirt and tailored pants. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between neutral and suspicious.
"Odessa. What are you doing here?"
I took a step back. "I… I was looking for Aunt Serena," I blurted out, trying to keep my voice steady.
He studied me for a beat too long. Then nodded, seeming to accept it.
"She's downstairs. Is everything alright?"
His tone was flat—neither warm nor harsh. Just... neutral.
"Mm. Nothing serious. I was… hungry."
He made a noncommittal sound, eyes already back on his phone.
Of course. He spends half his life glued to that screen—but I'm not even allowed to touch a device.
He stepped past me, pushing open the bedroom door behind us. I caught the soft creak as he entered, and then he was gone.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my heartbeat back to normal.
That was too close.
I turned away, still clutching the stolen bills in my pocket. Guilt crawled up my spine—but it was quiet compared to the rush I felt.
Tomorrow, I'd see that Blondie again.