I’m having a nice time on this road trip, which is weird, because we’re literally on our way to go kick off the first phase of a heist. I expected to be lowkey panicking the whole time.

I probably would be - I was, at the beginning - but Aiden seems calm and collected, despite the situation. Every time the fear starts taking hold of me, I close my eyes and absorb some of his steadiness. I find myself forgetting what we’re driving off to do, sitting back in my seat and watching the countryside slide past.

Now that Aiden has opened up a little about his travels, he seems more willing to share things. Just quick tidbits, but they’re all pieces of a larger canvas that I’m trying to fill in.

“Could be worse,” he comments, when we find ourselves briefly caught in a traffic jam. “I was in New York, once, upstate. Got caught behind an Amish guy driving a buggy. Horse and everything. There was no way to get around, and the person I’d hitched a ride from was pissed. I was actually kind of relieved. Dude was driving so fast, up until that. Felt like I owed that Amish guy a thank you.”

We leave the wooded roads of Ketterbridge behind and strike out into more agricultural land. Sprawling fields dotted with horses and cows roll past the window, along with mini-mountains of hay, sun-bleached farmhouses, and narrow irrigation ditches. We pass through a few tiny towns, coasting with the windows rolled down and the radio turned on.

“It’s more like two and a half hours,” Aiden observes, as we take the exit from the long stretch of highway we’ve stuck to thus far. “Not three. I think we’re pretty close. Can you check the map?”

He’s right. We’re almost there, according to my phone. The nerves I’d been managing to keep pressed down leap right back up.

I unbutton my flannel and toss it into the backseat of the car. Aiden does the same with his hat. He runs his fingers through his glossy hair, but it’s already hopelessly messed up from the breeze. Unable to resist, I reach over and thread my fingers into it. He smiles at me in the rearview.

Our outfits are both pretty nondescript. I left my Converse at home. We’re not wearing anything with logos or words or bright colors. Aiden is in a black sweater, and I’m in a charcoal one. Aiden’s shabby backpack doesn’t fit the role, so we’re only taking my brown leather messenger bag.

Aiden parks the car on an unmarked side road, far back from the main street. The distinctive blue color shouldn’t be spotted by anyone. We step out and scan each other’s outfits for anything identifying we might have forgotten to remove.

For probably the millionth time, I check to make sure that I’ve got the little white box in my bag. It’s the only expensive piece of the plan. It’s tiny, it's critical, and I am deeply afraid of losing it.

It’s one of two things we need to get accomplished today.

We go over the museum’s layout one more time. I send up a silent thanks to the travel blogger who posted their copy of the museum guide, complete with the map, for the whole internet to see.

“Collection stored on the basement level,” Aiden says, tapping a finger to our printed copy. “Showroom, house tours, all on the main level. Offices are on the second floor. Third floor is closed for restoration.” He hesitates, then takes my face in his hands. “You okay? You look pale.”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Aiden nods, then draws me in for a kiss before we set out. I hold tightly to that feeling, let it propel me forward.

We walk the rest of the way to the Bratton Collection, but it’s not far. We turn a corner in the winding road, and there, nestled in the valley of a few clustered hills, is our target.

A long pathway, flanked on either side by a row of trees, leads up to a circular fountain. Bronze sculptures of winged children make up the base, water pouring from pots in their hands.

The fountain is surrounded by green hedges, cut into decorative orbs. It’s too cold for any visitors to be lingering out here, but the parking lot we passed on our way had a number of cars in it. Everyone is probably inside, and that’s good. The employees are more likely to be distracted if there’s a crowd.

The house is just beyond the fountain.

It’s a huge building, way bigger than it looks in the photos. The website described it as a historic house, but no one family could ever need a house this size. I don’t even want to call it a house. It looks like a small palace, all white stone pillars and massive windows, trellised archways covered in ivy, sculptures posed in the surrounding gardens.

I look down at our printout of the guide and read a few facts that I had previously breezed over. Things like 40,000 square feet, and 40 rooms, and 15-acre estate.

“Damn, dude. What sort of money is this Bratton guy rolling in?”

Aiden shrugs, but I can tell that he’s also staggered by the sheer scale of the place.

“I guess it’s not like real estate is particularly expensive, out here. Still, though, what in the rich white person hell...? Whatever. Come on, we should get going.” Aiden reaches a hand for mine, remembers what we’re doing, and quickly retracts it. “Oh, and I need your ten dollars.”

I hand over the cash, but I’m a little salty about it. It’s pretty fucking absurd that we have to pay ten dollars to get inside. Albert Bratton clearly doesn’t need it.

That said, we're here to lay the groundwork for a plan to steal something worth far more than ten dollars. To say we’ll be getting our money’s worth would be a wild understatement.

We walk up the path and head inside without another word.

There’s a reception desk in the entry area, staffed by two women in professional attire. Aiden pays for us while I stare around. Shiny white marble floors, sparkling chandeliers, paintings in gilded golden frames. Flower arrangements on mahogany tables, set into alcoves in the wall. This is easily the fanciest spot that I’ve ever been to. I would feel uncomfortable and out of place at this museum even if I had no intention of robbing it.

At least the Bratton Collection doesn't require you to check your bags. The tiny white box is deep at the bottom of mine. I fight the urge to check again, make sure it's still there.

A sign indicates that the showroom is to our left. A large poster by the door announces the title of the current exhibition: Stories of America. I can almost hear Kasey’s voice in my head. Not very original. Isn’t everything in this whole collection technically a story of America?

A tour guide marches past, leading a cluster of tourists with cameras.

“How did a modest group of British colonies become the greatest country in the world?” the guide is asking. “An epochal century and a half changed everything. It all began with the brave men who pushed the frontier westward until the country spanned the entire continent. It's thanks to them that America is a leader in international affairs today. The leader. Depending on who you ask, of course. But if you’re asking me...”

The group humors him with a laugh, and I stop, staring.

It’s Coburn. Personally leading a tour. For all our research, we didn’t know that he does that. I wish I’d recorded what he was saying. Kasey would probably have about seventy-five things she’d take issue with, in those four or five statements he just made. Rounding down.

“We’re about to enter the showroom,” he says, stepping back to let the group go ahead of him. “This exhibition focuses on a particularly transformative era, and these objects tell remarkable stories. Let me show you my favorite...”

I watch him follow the group inside, then nearly jump when Aiden nudges my elbow.

“Hey. We’re paid up.”

“That was Coburn,” I whisper, nodding to the showroom. “He’s leading a tour group. Which means…”

“His office is empty,” Aiden realizes. “Okay. Yeah. We need to move fast.”

We walk around for a few minutes, pretending to admire the flower arrangements and study our museum map. Aiden got a more current one from the reception desk, all shiny and new, unlike the faded printout we brought with us. I actually think it helps us blend in, a little.

We head towards the showroom, then double back to the main entry. I stuff both copies of the guide into my bag as we wait for the right opportunity.

The security guard by the door is answering someone’s question. One of the receptionists is busy swiping a new arrival’s credit card. No visitors appear to be paying us any attention. The only unoccupied person is the second receptionist, sitting bored at the desk, her eyes roaming.

Aiden discreetly dials his phone, hiding it behind my back. The phone at the front desk begins to ring, and the free receptionist turns to answer it.

This is it.

My heart pounding, I quietly unclip the velvet rope blocking off the stairway behind us. The Staff Only sign attached to it dangles precipitously. For one horrible, gut-wrenching second, I think it might fall off and land loudly on the floor.

It doesn’t. We step around the rope, and Aiden clips it back into place.

We’re officially behind enemy lines.

~~~~

Thank god this is the kind of place where everyone’s door is neatly labeled. Some of the offices are open, and people are working inside, but no one glances up as we stride down the hall.

Aiden told me to act like I know exactly where I’m going. Like I confidently believe that I’m supposed to be here.

“People don’t even see you, if you don’t give them a reason to,” he’d said. “They’ll assume we’re there to meet with someone, or something. Trust me.”

Still, I’m grateful that no one happens to be out wandering the hallways.

Coburn’s office is at the very far end. Aiden tries the door, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief when it falls open.

Aiden shuts the door after us, and we take a look around.

Coburn has an austere office. Light pours in through two wide windows, but the decor style somehow eats it up and turns it flat. Everything is dark to the point of being grim. His desk has a computer, a few pictures in frames, and - a full cup of coffee, next to a half-eaten bagel. Maybe he forgot he was giving a tour today? That would explain the unlocked door.

A bookshelf takes up an entire wall, stuffed with antique leather volumes that wouldn't look out of place in a display case downstairs. I set my bag on the desk and flip it open, then take a second look at the shelves, frowning.

“These bookshelves... they’re redwood. Wow. Not like that entire subfamily is endangered or anything, Coburn!”

“Jamie. Stay focused.” Aiden is already busy examining the doorframe, pressing his fingers to it, memorizing the shape and feel.

I pull the box from my bag and open it up.

The camera inside is the smallest one we could afford. It’s roughly the size of my fingertip, a matte black circle. Built for home security, ironically. I turn the camera on and open the related app on my phone. A live video feed of my own face pops up on my phone screen.

I use the video feed to test out a few different places in the office. There’s nowhere good on Coburn’s desk; he doesn’t have enough stuff. Those redwood bookshelves, however…

I cross to them and take a closer look. This office is sparkling clean, but the books themselves all bear a thin layer of dust. My guess is that Coburn probably doesn’t actually read them, or at least, not often.

I prop the tiny camera on top of a volume on the highest shelf, then take a look at the feed playing back on my phone. It shows the whole office, including the desk, the windows, and the doorway.

When I step back and examine the shelves, I can barely see the camera, and Coburn is a little shorter than me, so. I think this is the place.

“What do we think?” I ask Aiden, turning my phone to show him.

“Perfect. No chance it’s gonna fall?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Great.” He’s still got his fingers on the doorframe, feeling it out.

“You all good over here?”

He shakes his head. “No. I need to memorize it a little better. Can you check and make sure no one’s coming?”

I click my phone to black, stuff it in my pocket, and open the door again. Peek my head very briefly into the hall, and spot - a security guard, strolling towards us, taking quick looks into each office. It’s the same guy who was by the door downstairs. Starting his rounds.

I now see why Coburn wasn't concerned about locking his office.

“Oh, shit, Aiden, there’s a security guard coming!”

“I’m not done yet! Stall!”

Stall? Oh, my fucking god. I frantically cast my mind around for an idea. If I go out there and try to talk my way out of this, we are fucked.

I dig in Aiden’s back pocket, extract his phone, and redial the number he called to distract the receptionist.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Albert Bratton Collection. This is Donna, how can I help you?”

“Hello.” I keep my voice quiet, scrambling for the right words. Kasey told me not to lie, only stick to things that are true, but we need a distraction if we’re making it out of this fancy Confederate rich person hell-place.

"What can I help you with, sir?"

What would cause a disturbance? What do rich people hate? People asking them for money?

Actually…

“I visited the museum today,” I tell Donna. “I wanted to let you know that a guy outside asked me for some cash, while I was on my way in.”

Technically the guy was Aiden, but it’s true.

“What?” Donna immediately sounds concerned. “That’s unacceptable, I’m so sorry. We do not allow panhandlers on the property. Was this recent?”

“Yes. It happened on the pathway out front.”

“We’ll send security to check up on that right away. Thank you for letting us know.”

A soft click disconnects the call. I peek around the doorframe again, watching the security guard. He pauses, three doors away from Coburn’s office, listening to his radio.

He swivels and sets off back the way he came.

“Holy shit.” I turn and slump back against the wall, my fingers shaking, sweat beading on my forehead. “Aiden, please tell me that you’re almost done-”

“I’m good. Get your bag.”

We go back downstairs, slip past the rope again. Kasey was right: these places usually put the staff entrances in back corners, where people’s eyes don’t often wander.

We cross to the grandiose doors of the main entrance.

“Security camera,” Aiden mutters. “Did it catch us on the way in?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

“Let’s make sure.”

We linger by the doors until we’re certain that the security camera has clear footage of our faces.

Stepping outside is the best. The fresh air feels like mercy, a miracle. We’re free.

For now, anyways. We still have one more mission to complete today.

~~~~

Visitors can explore the grounds of the Bratton Collection, provided they’ve paid their ten dollars to its multi-millionaire owner. Aiden and I make our way down the steps and loop around the outside of the building.

We find a stone bench beneath Coburn’s window, and I pull up the video feed from our newly-installed camera. We watch and wait until Coburn appears in the doorway. He's yawning, reaching for the cup of coffee on his desk.

“Ready?” I ask.

Aiden nods, ice-blue light flaring in his eyes.

“Ready.”