Heist

museum and let the door close behind me.

  The room is deathly quiet, no trace of the takeover or sign of a struggle. Words echo in my mind as I replay the scene. This was definitely not police procedure. It makes no sense. Undercover cops probably don't follow the same rules, but who's the bad guy here?

  Shadows drape the walls and corners of the museum. Dad will be back soon. I glance at the door that exits into the side street. My feet itch to run away from what lies before me. Truth is just ahead. I sense it. I can either stay and face it or run and hide behind my walls, believing childhood myths.

  Footsteps clunk on the stairs and I make the decision in a heartbeat. I dart across the small entrance room and hide behind the counter at the guard's station. A wave of nausea falls, threatening to pull me away. I fight it.

  I want truth. No matter how much it hurts.

  1:48 a.m.

  The cops return. Their fake swagger and cop routine is gone. Now they move and talk quickly, with purpose, with no one to impress or fool. They leave the lobby and take the stairs two at a time. I follow them on silent feet up a wide and smooth marble staircase into a small alcove on the second floor. I hover in the hall and peek around the corner, afraid of what I'll find.

  Light from fake candles cast a ghostly shadow on the mix of large and small paintings hanging on the walls. The room drips with elegance, like two old ladies should be sitting on the velvet love seat, sipping Earl Gray Tea and nibbling on rye crackers.

  The cops survey the room like they're kids in a toy store. Dad's partner moves close to a painting and a screeching alarm sounds. The blaring noise echoes through the entire museum. They mutter curses, and I jump back and clap my hands over my ears, the sound drilling into my head.

  Seconds later, it stops. My heart pulses in my throat, and I dare to peek into the room again. Dad has kicked in a motion sensor on the wall. The plastic is shattered and wires hang out. He stands on one of the three chairs, not caring about the street grit on his black shiny shoes, and pulls a large painting of a boat on the ocean from the wall.

  Together, they smash the painting from the frame. A knife glitters. Dad pierces the painting and cuts it like he's slicing an apple for his kid's snack. Flakes of paint drift to the floor.

  I lean against the wall in the hallway, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My legs shake. I cringe at the sound of another painting being smashed from its frame. I want to go home. I want to party with my friends, eat a roast beef sandwich with Mom. I want to laugh with Jetta. I want to hold her hand and trace my thumb across her smooth skin. I want to pull her to me and feel her heartbeat against mine.

  A strong hand grips my arm and jerks me into the room. "Looks like we have a little friend."

  I stare into Dad's gleaming eyes. Eyes I don't recognize. There's no hint of a smile of recognition. Of course not.

  The Gardner Heist happened in 1990. I wasn't even born yet.

  "Put him with the others," he orders.

  The second cop grabs me by the scruff of the neck and forces me down the marble staircase. I feel numb, my body just going through the motions. I'd fall if he weren't holding me up. I don't put up a fight as he pushes me down another set of stairs and a long, dark hallway in the basement.

  I can't fight as the truth spins around me. Duct tape tears but I don't register the sound until strips of it are plastered across my mouth and head. A small crack is left around my eyes and under my nose. Sweat fights against the sticky tape on my skin and I lower my head, struggling to keep it together as my heart thunders.

  The cop leans into me. His voice lowers and he says, "I'll pass on to you a bit of wisdom my family follows with great success. It's better to be a mole hiding in the ground, then a squirrel sticking his nose where he shouldn't." He claps me on the shoulder.

  Then he leaves, and I fight off the darkness threatening to consume me.

  10:00 a.m.

  The cold plastic chair in the private room at the police station sends goosebumps across my skin. Everyone from nurses to cops to FBI agents have asked me questions. I haven't said much. If the judge at Dad's sentencing didn't know about Dad's undercover work, these street cops definitely won't.

  I know last night looks bad, but sitting in the dark of the basement, taped to an old furnace pipe, I arrived at a conclusion. Once I realized this truth, the sweats stopped, and the pressure against my head and chest lightened. Dad was on an undercover job, playing the role of a criminal so he could gather evidence against his "partner."

  I have a plan worked out. Before I left the coat at the Gardner, no one had connected my dad to the stolen paintings. So if I can leave without mentioning any names, then it should be that way again. And the short spells of dizziness make me think I don't have much time left.

  The door opens and cold air brushes against the back of my neck. I don't swivel to acknowledge the next interrogator.

  "Would you like some hot chocolate?" asks a familiar voice. "These rooms can be a bit chilly."

  I turn and my jaw drops slightly.

  "I keep telling them to bring in some comfy chairs, and maybe a small fridge, but they don't listen to me." The man drapes his suit coat over a chair and sits down as if he's at home in front of his television. Or this is a meeting with an old friend.

  "Frank?" I ask.

  Frank chuckles, a nice, easy laugh. "I didn't realize I was so famous with the kids. What's your name?"

  "Jack. We've met before." Hope springs in my heart. Just maybe.

  "I remember every man, woman, cop, criminal, dog, and parakeet I meet." He taps the side of his nose. "Part of my job as an insurance investigator. And we've never met."

  "You're wrong." Clearly, Frank doesn't remember me. Should I tell him about everything? Dad? And the time travel? Or is this a different Frank from a different reality who doesn't know about these things yet?

  Frank crosses his legs. "Where exactly have we met?"

  I recall his words from the hallway at the courthouse. He said only I could help my daddy. He said I would have to make a choice someday. Well, that time's now. "From the future."

  "The future, eh?" Frank stops swinging his leg. He points a finger at me. "Now that's one I haven't heard before."

  "I met you in the courthouse at my dad's trial. You were drinking coffee, and your nose fell off."

  Frank opens his eyes wide, the disbelief written there in the way his mouth crooks and an eyebrow rises.

  "You had a different nose. And your face looked different. You were a lot older. You had traveled into the future to talk to me." Some of the puzzle pieces come together. "You must have used a painting. That's how I keep coming back to the Gardner Heist. Through a painting."

  Frank leans forward. "Now son, I like an active imagination, but let's not carry this too far."

  "I'm telling the truth. I don't lie when it comes to my dad. You told me I was the only one who could help my dad. That I'd be going on a journey."

  "Okay, okay." He waves his hands. "Why don't you tell me about our meeting."

  My voice cracks. "My dad had been denied parole. The judge didn't know he was really an undercover agent."

  "How long had your daddy been in jail, son?"

  "Four years."

  "What was he in for?" Frank asks.

  "A diamond heist."

  His eyebrows immediately shoot up toward the ceiling. "Maybe I can help you. This is right up my alley."

  "The robbers dressed as security guards and that's how they stole the?" I let my voice drop off. A wave of dizziness hits and I put my head in my hands. Security guards. Policemen.

  "Thieves often use the same method of entry to a robbery over and over again. Like a trademark."

  Blood rushes to my face and neck. I return to the words that pull me out of the darkness. I raise my voice. "My dad's an undercover agent."

  Frank stands and paces in the small room.

  I sit in the chair, my arms and legs trembling. I wait, hoping Frank be
lieves me. He has to believe me.

  He stops pacing and turns to me. His eyes are slits and his mouth pencil thin. "Son, I don't lie. I've been around the business for a little while, and I know one thing for sure. Undercover agents don't steal a million dollars worth of diamonds."

  A surge of anger floods my body and jumpstarts it into action. I spring from the chair and leap at Frank. I grab his arms and shake, emotion coursing through my limbs as if I have no control. "My dad is not a criminal!" But even to me, the words sound hollow. I collapse to the ground at his feet.

  "I can't say if your daddy is or isn't a criminal, son." He rubs my shoulder. "I just want to hear a little bit more about what you saw in the Gardner last night. A description of the men. Did they say anything in particular?"

  I sway. The dizziness returns full force along with a bout of nausea. The room blurs. I'm leaving. Scenes from last night flash. I can't give my dad's name. But the other cop. There was something familiar. Another piece clicks. "I can give you a name."

  Frank drops to his knees and grabs my collar. "Tell me, son."

  I stare into the whites of Frank's eyes and see a man desperate for the truth. Even if Dad wasn't undercover, families don't rat on each other. But the other man, his partner. Talking about a mole and a squirrel. And the guy's bushy hair. And his somewhat large nose. The name comes easily and without regret.

  "Kronin," I whisper.

  Then I disappear.

  MARCH 17, 2013

  DAY THREE

  7:34 a.m.

  A groan rumbles deep in my chest. My head is heavy