“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes, the cab is on its way.” I make sure to speak clearly.

“Grace? Don’t get scared, okay? What’s the number one rule?”

“Stay calm,” I say, watching the street. I notice a dark car parked down the block…is there someone in there watching me? This time, I really hope so.

“Good girl,” St. Clair says. “Now what’s the plan again?”

I take a deep breath, remembering my lines. “I’ll pick up the painting and come meet you where we agreed.”

“Perfect,” he says, just like we rehearsed. “The buyer is coming this afternoon, and as soon as he’s paid us, we’ll be on a plane to sandy beaches and sunny skies for the rest of our lives.”

“Can’t wait.” A dark blue taxi pulls up in front of St. Clair’s apartment and honks. “My ride is here,” I tell him, hoping that gives Lennox enough time to start his car and get ready to move. “I have to go.”

“Grace, be careful,” St. Clair says, and I know he actually means it. “I thought someone was following me this morning. You might have a tail, too. Watch your back.”

“I will,” I say, hoping that Lennox is taking the bait. “You be careful, too.”

I hang up and whisper a little prayer that nothing goes wrong before getting into the cab, forcing myself not to turn around to check the tail car. Everything counts on us carrying out this risky plan. My plan. If we fail, it’s all on me—Crawford’s bragging rights reinstated, my romance with St. Clair ruined, not to mention my freedom and ability to live like a normal citizen permanently revoked.

One night behind bars was more than enough for me, yet here I am, risking it all again. I take a deep breath. Focus, Grace. One step, one brushstroke at a time. You can make a whole painting that way, but first you have to start.

And if we can pull this off…Lennox will leave us alone, once and for all. We’ll be free.

It’s worth the risk.

I take the taxi to St. Clair’s storage space, and make sure to exit the building with a not-so-subtly concealed brown painting tube under my arm, just like the one St. Clair emerged from the alley with that night in London when I found out the truth. It seems like a lifetime ago, and the irony doesn’t escape me that I’m in his exact position now.

Only I want to get caught.

I get back into the cab and direct the driver to the Gare du Nord train station. When I check behind us, I see that same dark car from back at the apartment still trailing behind.

They’re taking the bait.

“Merci,” I say to the cab driver as I pay him and roll my suitcase behind me. The old train station is bustling with people under the stone archways, everyone carrying bags and hurrying from one place to another. I look around nervously as I tuck the painting tube under my jacket, making sure to leave the end in plain sight. I want to look anxious and scared, but this part isn’t faked. I really am worried now. So much of the plan could go wrong, and there are so many details we can’t predict.

One step at a time.

I approach the ticket counter. “One ticket to Alsace,” I speak loudly, so anyone nearby can hear, even though the tracker in my phone will lead them straight to me. I take my ticket to the train, walking slowly, then climb on board the train.

I head down the narrow corridor and find an empty compartment. My phone chirps with a text from St. Clair. Everything okay?

All according to plan, I write back.

The engine starts, and the train slowly moves out of the station. I sit back, watching from the windows as the Paris city streets make way for rolling countryside. It’s beautiful, and the passing landscape reminds me of all the movies my mom and I watched with characters taking trains or planes or hot air balloons to their next adventures in faraway lands. Look at me now, doing just that, going on a quest to help someone I love, to places I’ve always wanted to visit. The circumstances may not be exactly what I dreamed of, but I’m here, and the fantasy can’t compare to the reality of love, of a connection like St. Clair and I have. And the future we’re going to build together. Fields of yellow daisies stretch out in a vista worthy of a painting outside my window, white puffy clouds drifting lazily above in the blue sky.

I can’t believe that just a month ago I was rushing to make that first intern interview at the auction house- and ran straight into St. Clair. I had no idea then what awaited me.

Us.

It’s easy to feel like he swept me off my feet, but even though St. Clair offered me the chance of a lifetime, I was the one who decided to take it. And every new day has taken me further from that nervous, timid girl back in San Francisco, toward…what? I’ve changed, I can feel it, I’m more confident now; braver. Happier. I like to think if my mom was here, she’d be proud of me for growing. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that I can no longer wait for fate to give me what I want.

I look at the sky, at the cotton ball clouds, and wonder for the millionth time since my mom died if she can see me, really see me. Would she approve of this plan, of what I’m doing in the name of justice, and love? Would she understand?

She would if she could see my heart, and that’s one part of me I know she always understood. She used to tell me, “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” except she really meant it. She did everything she could to make me smile.

“I’m happy, Mom,” I whisper to the heavens. “I hope you are, too.”

I arrive at the station right on schedule, and make sure to carry the tube obviously as I drag my case out and hail another cab. I give the driver an address in the countryside. As we head away from the crowd at the train station, adrenaline starts coursing through me. This is it. The last step.

Don’t blow it now.

About twenty minutes outside of town, the cab turns off the main road down a winding country lane. The trees turn manicured, spaced evenly to create a grand driveway. As we crest a hill, a sprawling estate comes into view. A stone mansion sits behind a low brick wall and at least three other stone buildings and a wooden barn are scattered behind on acres and acres of green hillside dotted with trees.

“Wow,” I breathe. It’s elegant, tasteful – and considering the owner, I’m surprised.

The tires crunch on the gravel in the driveway. The cab deposits me outside the grand front door, and then drives away. I wipe my palms on my skirt and silently count to three.

Breathe, Grace.

A few steps to the door and I ring the bell.

“Yes?” A barking voice calls. “I told you, I’m not interested in your local bloody milk—”

The door swings open, and I come face to face with the owner of the estate.

Spencer Crawford.

He looks surprised to see me. “I know you,” he sneers. “You’re St. Clair’s latest bit of alright. Weren’t you arrested?”

I clear my throat. “Grace Bennett. And they let me go.”

“So? What’s all this about?” Crawford looks around. “Is St. Clair here?”

“No. But may I have a moment of your time? This won’t take long,” I add.

Crawford pauses, then shrugs. “Make it quick. I have some friends due tonight. And they like to party, if you know what I mean.”

I try not to shudder as I step toward the door – holding the painting tube outstretched. But before I can set foot inside, the shriek of sirens comes screaming up the drive. A fleet of police cars careen toward us, lights flashing and horns blaring.

Right on cue.

“What the hell…” Crawford swears and steps outside, covering his ears.

More sirens approach, their alarms making the air vibrate with screeching, and above us, a helicopter circles the estate.

Whoa, a helicopter?

“Don’t move!” a voice yells through a megaphone. “You are surrounded. Put your hands above your head and remain where you are.”