Tiffany’s eyes grow wider. Her forehead begins to dew. She looks surprisingly like a caged rat. I fight the hope that springs to life in my heart. That’s my injured, elderly great-aunt out there.
“That’s what she said,” Max answers.
Tiffany presses her gun against my temple. “Not a sound.” “She’ll see the open vault door.”
Tiffany smiles. It’s not a nice one—if shaky. “This”—she jabs the gun against my head, pinning me against the shelves, her back to the door and Aunt Weeby—“is what they’ll find. They can choose. I shoot you
I doubt Max is armed, and I know Aunt Weeby isn’t. All I can pray for is the Lord to protect them from this madwoman.
“Sugarplum?” Aunt Weeby calls. “You okay to your stomach? Is it them ulcers acting up?”
When I don’t answer, she goes on, her voice closer with every word. “Are you in here? Max says you been gone forever— what’s this?”
Sure enough, she yanks open the vault door. And that’s enough for Tiffany to move the gun just a fraction away from my temple. I take my chances, and jab out with my elbow. It connects with her middle.
“MAX!” Aunt Weeby bellows as she trips over her cast and lands on the floor.
“Max!” I echo.
Tiffany straightens up.
“Leaving?” I ask. Then I lunge. Maybe I should have listened to Max on some of that football stuff. I’m sure my technique is lacking, since I almost land on my face. It’s not exactly what I’d call a tackle, but I go with what I have. I grab Tiffany’s foot, and being a shoe girl, I give the Stella McCartney a yank. Tiffany crumbles.
The gun skitters from her hand, the momentum carrying it out into the restroom after it bounces off the vault door— thankfully without discharging again.
Aunt Weeby grabs it and squeals with glee. “Put ’em up!” I groan.
Max runs in, followed by Julie, gun at the ready. In the doorway, I see two more figures, but I’m too overwhelmed to identify anyone right off the bat. A moment later, I make out Sally and Miss Mona’s new camerawoman huddled together, their jaws agape, their eyes a-bulging.
The welcome
Now that the cavalry has arrived, I can’t find the oomph to move, much less stand up. I lay flat on the ground; I don’t register more than a general buzz of action and sound around me for seconds, minutes. And then strong, gentle hands grasp my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Max asks.
“I think all the parts are still attached.”
“Want to stand?”
I give him a crooked smile. “How about we try sitting first?”
He holds my hand, and I use his strength to haul myself up to a sitting position. “Who called the cops?”
“Julie did as soon as she got to the day care center. She realized someone had lured her away on purpose.”
“Is Chief—”
“While you were kissing the floor there, he hauled Tiffany away.”
“I wasn’t kissing the floor. I was just too wiped out to move.
He backs up, hands in a defensive position. “Hey! I’m on your side.”
“All right, all right, all right,” I mutter as I stand up. “Where’s Aunt Weeby?”
“With Agent Stewart, giving him her side of the story.”
My eyes goggle. “Poor guy! He doesn’t know what he’s in for.”
“He can handle it, I’m sure. But you’re in for a date with him too.”
“Don’t remind me.” My knees don’t remember how to do their thing, and it’s all I can do to stay upright. “Do I really have to go through a grilling right now?”
“Maybe we can talk them into letting you get checked out at the hospital first—”
“Hold it right there, Max Matthews! I’m not going back. I want to go home. Let me at Agent Stewart.”
I wobble out of the vault, nod hello to a couple of Chief Clark’s officers, one of whom has the gun in a ziplock bag, and then I stumble toward the door. There, in Julie’s usual seat, is my aunt, retelling the tale in her own unique—wacky— way.
“Miss Adams,” the shadow . . . er . . . Agent Stewart says. “I’m done with your aunt. I have a few questions for you—”
“Could you give me a couple of hours? I’m shaky and I’d like a shower and a nap. There’s nothing like a gun at your head for making you . . . well, sweat.”
Aunt Weeby groans. “Andrea! A woman never sweats, sugarplum. We only—”
