Queen of Thieves

➵ Chapter 7

The house was nearly empty when I got home. Other than Tonia running around with a bucket, nobody was there. When I opened the door, she was mopping up the foyer. Wet streaks ran across the dark floor. Her head snapped up to look at me, the mop dripping. ''Miss!" she gasped, pushing a strand of her fair hair away from her eyes. ''What happened to you?"

''Nothing,'' I said, managing a crooked smile. ''I just had a bit too much to drink last night."

Her eyes were fixed on my clothes. Her Ukrainian accent was starting to get thicker, the way it always did when she was upset about something. ''Did somebody -''

''I'm okay, Tonia,'' I promised. ''Do you think you can keep this from my parents?"

It was probably unfair of me to ask that of her. She kept a lot of things about me a secret ever since I had been adopted. But in my defense, her timing was atrocious.

Once, Tonia had actually caught me climbing to my balcony, leather clad, at three in the morning with my mask still on. I had spun out a lame lie about a costume party I wanted to attend and being grounded. She didn't question my choice of going dressed as the vigilante that had been plaguing the city, eating up my excuse instead.

Then again, it was possible she just couldn't be bothered to care.

Tonia nodded in agreement before she moved closer, clearly still concerned. ''Should I get you something to eat"

''That won't be necessary," I assured her, going up the staircase.

I switched on the lights to my room. It was obvious somebody had been in here.

My throw pillows had been set back in their spots, the large bed made. The books I was reading had been stacked up sloppily all around the room the last time I had been in there. Now they were packed up on the bookshelf. Perfumes and foundations were lined up on my vanity, a cup of fluffy new makeup brushes beside them.

I didn't remember buying the brushes.

Everything was tidied up, but it hadn't been Tonia. I could literally smell Chanel in the air.

My mother had been in here.

Of course. That was where the brushes had come from. Spending money on somebody seemed to be equivalent to that of an apology in this house. It was a fact that I would never grow used to nor would I ever appreciate, no matter how many years I stayed in this house.

A simple 'sorry' would have sufficed, I thought rather bitterly. I would have preferred it, in fact.

Apologies couldn't be bought. Anyone who thought otherwise was a fool. Apologies had to be spoken or shown, or else they held no sincerity. No meaning.

She was trying though. I couldn't fault her for that.

I shut the door behind me and walked to the equestrian painting that hung over my bed. I grabbed the flash drive I'd hidden behind it and sat down on the mattress, leaning over to slide out my laptop from beneath my bed.

I looked through a file marked Delivered on the drive. There were five names and when I looked them up, all but one turned out to be a political figure. A woman named Teresa Hale was the odd one out. When I searched her name online, nothing came up. Not a single article. Not even a lousy Facebook page.

I looked through some other files, but there wasn't anything suspicious looking. There were remodeling plans, campaign ideas, and a couple of less-than-legally-downloaded episodes of Orange is the New Black. Eventually, I came across a file marked Payments. When I tried opening it, it turned out to be heavily encrypted. I scrolled down and clicked the file under that, called Not Delivered. When I tried opening that, I got the same irritating result.