Being an IT guy is such a downgrade from the suspense and thrills of the daily life of a thief. There’s at least some solace knowing I’m being helpful, unlike that uneducated robot who took away my appetite for shrimp cocktails. And a noticeable caveat that’s no longer stuck to my shell is that Carmelita and Interpol are off our tails. For now.

Whenever I can, I sneak photographs to my desk. There are some I haven’t been able to stomach, such as a picture of Clockwerk I took way back at Krack Karov, because when I see those beaks I think of my legs, and how I should’ve gotten out of that mouth faster. There’s also a picture I have of Penelope. I mean, I drew a mustache on her, mocking her behind bars but it wasn’t long after the mission in ancient Arabia with Salim and Ms. Decibel before my endorphins from beating her in the Moat Monster just faded out and I couldn’t stomach the picture, mustache or no mustache.

Pictures I do bring along are ones that Sly, Murray and I should’ve theoretically gotten rid of long ago. It’s kind of foolish keeping pictures of us eating the world’s tastiest chocolate bar, or the ones of us sneaking away from the cops in Bombay when we stole the Fire Stone of India (which we sold to a dealer about two years ago to afford a month-long trip to Aruba, and a few years rent. Boy, did that get so many worries off our derrieres, as Dimitri might put them). But we’ve developed a habit of keeping our incarceratory photos anyway, and whether these photos today bring me nostalgia or sadness, I at least have a lot to think about as I’m answering calls to help out the technologically clueless. 

It’s been a little over two months since Sly told us he had to finish his fight with Cyrille Le Paradox so he wouldn’t be able to escape and further attack his ancestors, and as much as I understand him, I wish there could’ve been a different way to stop it all.

When I return from work, I see I have some mail. First envelope is the usual bill. The next is in handwriting that I don’t think will ever not give me some shell cramps. It’s Penelope’s handwriting, no return address. I open it and it’s another postcard. I’ve gotten five of these so far, beginning at one per week when the process started five weeks ago. It showcases a wall somewhere with vandalism that clearly represents her. After I got the first one, I almost considered not accepting the job interview with Crossan’s Computer Support. I just didn’t feel safe sticking in one place, too out in the open like when Don Octavio kidnapped me in Venice.

Murray and I had to hit the road to a motel for a week after the first letter, anonymously running away, and I used some security camera feed to monitor our hideout, but nothing really happened to it. We ended up calming down but we’ve kept our doors, windows and balcony closed ever since. I think the second letter really drove the point home to do that when we came back and the alarm sounded from it all over again.

Who knew that my ex-girlfriend could’ve done this to us? I’ve been showing these to Carmelita, something that didn’t seem completely right to do, but I’ve been stumped as to if that mouse is trying to tell me something or just taunt me. 

After the third postcard, I decided I needed to slow down on it all. Penelope knew our address, and she wasn’t doing anything about it other than these postcards. If she wants to talk to us, she should figure out a better way of communication. If she thinks I’ll solve her riddle only to fall into a trap, then she never knew me. If she’s worried we’ll have security or Interpol waiting for her, then she’s even more of a coward than I thought. If she has come to accept I’m going to stay alongside Sly and that’s why she’s taunting us but not attacking us, then that is just petulant and pitiful. 

I go in to tell Murray about the new postcard. He should be back from wrestling. He always finishes his line of work before me and I see our van parked from through our garage’s window by the door. 

I wheel myself in, and I see he’s not alone.