The great grandfather clock strikes midnight, the only sound in the darkness and silence. A darkness and silence that is palpably charged as I creep away from the bed. The chimes ring in my ears. Every pop of my soles on the vinyl floor echoes off the towering ceiling. The adrenaline is so potent I can scarcely feel my own body.

In my chest, a vibrant red light glows, so brightly it illuminates the armchairs as I pass them—mid-room, twenty paces from the door. The rhythmic pulsing of my heartstone is strong and hot behind my ribs, where it still lies. The tension, the anticipation, the peaceful slumber of the naked woman twisted in bedsheets behind me.

She barely stirred when I eased out of the sheets. Just a drowsy murmur, her arms stretching into the empty warmth where I was. She doesn’t snore, which adds a challenge. Snorers hint they’re rousing by the sudden quiet. With silent sleepers, there’s no warning. She could be awake now, watching me, and I wouldn’t know.

But she’s not. Not after an evening that left her velour bedding in such a state, irrefutable evidence of what we’ve been up to.

On the back of the nearest chair are my clothes. This is dangerous, but I must dress now. There won’t be time later. Every minute will count. If she does wake, my excuse is ready, but I hate to use it. Don’t want them to say I’m getting sloppy.

I slide into my pants, one leg at a time—pull on my shirt—carefully fasten my belt. There’s the slightest, unavoidable clink as I do, but she doesn’t stir. My skin is prickling. My extremities are numb. My eyes are wide and wild in the dark.

This is it.

I tiptoe back to the bed, to her side. Her bleach-blonde hair is a rat’s nest beneath her head. Unkempt and comfortable, she is barely recognizable: Christine Tremblay, America’s Sweetheart, internationally acclaimed beauty, supermodel, actress…and bearer of one of the Ten Most Fabulous Jewel Hearts in Existence.

My hungry gaze rises to the wall above her sleeping figure. That’s where it always is, behind a painting or portrait. Most put it near the middle, so you’ve got to mount the mattress to reach it. Not Christine though. It’s right by the post, within arm’s reach.

My smile distorts. I was worried about this, the thrill dampening. It almost feels like a slight.

It’s too easy.

With expert hands, I shift the painting. It doesn’t even creak. Laura Middleton’s creaked, loudly and on purpose. That way she’d rouse if anyone else moved it. She thought that was so clever.

It was. Until she bragged about it to me.

Behind the painting is a small safe with twelve digits. A trillion possible combinations you might think, but no. There’s no limit to how many digits in the final combo. Just however many they can memorize: three, twelve…even a hundred. Shailey Coolidge did that. One hundred numbers, memorized and typed in, every day. More possibilities than atoms in the universe. Genius. Uncrackable.

Until she told it to me.

This time though, there’s nothing to it. I learned where this safe was before I learned her laugh, and I knew this combination before I knew her favorite color.

The buttons don’t even beep when punched. Such a little thing, but so significant. You get to know that sound, of those buttons, as well as your own breathing. Jaina Kittridge almost woke when I opened hers, because of the beeping. Thankfully, she was so drunk she was barely conscious. Now that was a tough job. One for the books. Not like this. This is so easy it hurts.

Jaina Kittridge never drank a drop of alcohol in her life. Not before that night. Or since, so I’ve heard.

On the final digit I hesitate. This is the deadly moment: the loud, mechanical click that no amount of stealth can suppress. It’s do or die.

Christine shifts her weight—tucks a hand under her head—sighs softly.

Jaw set, I press the button.

Click!

She snorts. She reaches for me again, feeling around under the covers.

“Where you go?” she groans. “Back to bed!”

I kiss her forehead. Run my fingers along her temple. She smiles and sighs. She’s always saying I have magic hands.

“Go to sleep, love,” I whisper. “Don’t worry.”

She curls up tight, her face pressed into her silk pillowcase. A few moments later, I hear the change in her breathing. Asleep again.

Because she doesn’t worry. Because she trusts me. Entirely.

She didn’t at first. They rarely do. They’re not stupid, after all, the world’s richest women. They’ve seen every move, heard every line…but there’s a difference between me and pathetic fools drooling on the red carpet. I don’t cower from their venom. I savor it. Bask in it. That’s why they don’t brush me off. Why they listen, giggle, and linger. They can’t resist that.

I open the safe, and there it is, on the finest velvet money can buy, a cloth probably worth more than this whole building—but neither it nor all the treasures of the world can compare to the gem upon it. The size of a tennis ball—ovular, angular, and faceted—its boundless depths gleaming with brilliant pink light, sparkling even in darkness—the jewel heart of Christine Tremblay.

I wrap it in that velvet cloth, concealing its luminescence. Then, overcome with triumph, I raise it, clenched in my fist. It’s warm and beats faintly against my palm, that precious rhythm that only she and I have ever known.

Because she shared it with me.

Closing my eyes, I remember. Remember the gala last night. How beautiful she looked in her rosy, satin gown. How her heart caught every light, casting rainbows throughout the ballroom like a radiant disco ball. They say rich young women always wear their hearts on their sleeves, but none as magnificently as Christine. It drew every eye, every gasp. The world of the rich and famous turned around it as she parted the masses with a smile, and with me on her arm.

I remember dinner afterwards. How the paparazzi followed the chauffer’s taillights all the way back to her apartment. How we didn’t go out because she insisted on a private evening, and my genuine surprise when I saw the dinner she had cooked for us. The world’s brightest starlet, barefoot in the kitchen, plating salmon Wellington with that giddy smile on her lips. The one she always wore when she couldn’t keep a secret. Which was often.

And I remember how the fire penetrated the ruby wine in my Austrian crystal glass as she knelt by my side and presented me with her heart.

“Christine!” I exclaimed, rising from my chair. “You can’t!”

“I can,” she declared, eyes sparkling even without her line of glittery eyeshadows. “It’s mine to give.”

“We’re not married yet!” I protested still. “What will they say?!”

“I don’t care anymore! I love you, James! I want you to have me. All of me.”

She pressed the marvelous heartstone into my hands and closed my fingers around it, her own fingers trembling. Just like they always did. Like it meant something.

“All my heart.”

I brushed a well-practiced tear from my eye. And she melted. They always do.

Now, I look down on her, sleeping sound. I snicker, thinking how the bedsprings creaked so loudly last night I wondered if the whole bed would collapse. Christine Tremblay…she’s not like the others: cynical, vain, unable to see past her eyeliner. She’s silly. She jokes. She laughs. She’s…real. As real as a celebrity can be, anyway. It’s why she’s so loved. Why she’s famous.

Now, she’ll be famous for a whole other reason.

I turn away.

She stirs again. “Don’t be long. I’ll be cold without you.”

I don’t answer. The door shuts gently behind me as I go. The little, warm bundle I tuck into my pocket.

And that’s it. I’ll never see her again.

The penthouse is empty. No security tonight. She dismissed it all for our special evening. I’ll never see this place again either. Still, I go without a backward glance. Don’t need one. I remember their homes better than their bodies.

Down the elevator and out the door—the secret door the press doesn’t know about—I step out into the crisp night air. The doorman is already off to fetch my car. Within sixty seconds, he’s pulling it around, shaking my hand, wishing me a pleasant evening, businesslike and professional, but personal and polite.

I like him. Carter’s his name. From Illinois. Has two granddaughters and a Corgi. I’ll miss him.

He won’t miss me. By tomorrow, he’ll hate me. They all will. They’ll slander the name they think is mine, plaster this face on every billboard and in every newspaper, but it won’t matter. I’ll have a new one before another eye sees me. Keeps the thrill alive though, seeing that face in the paper. I wonder what name they’ll use for me this time.

The Gentleman of Absence. That’s my favorite, so far.

It takes one hour to reach the house no one knows is mine. One hour exactly. The neighbors will see me tomorrow, stepping out for the paper, but they won’t see James Sinclair. Just the unremarkable kid at 1114.

The garage closes behind the hundred-thousand-dollar car she bought me. I’ll dispose of it tomorrow. Now, I rush down to the basement, through an all-but-invisible door concealed in a wall. I take the steps two at a time. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I’m quite sure she hasn’t woken yet, but there’s always a chance. Every minute counts.

I did lose one once. One heart. Mina Turner woke up and saw what I’d done, just as I reached this staircase. In that moment, her radiant heartstone cracked and darkened. Ruined. Such a blow. Such a loss.

Down in the basement, a bright light flickers. Midway up the floor-to-ceiling shelf set in the far wall is a large, crystalline jar. A jar filled with glorious, glittering hearts.

As I reach it, my hand flashes. In the blink of an eye, I remove the lid, slip Christine’s heart inside, and reseal it. Less than three seconds. Personal best. Just a few longer, and the others might start to sully, their ruby glow darkening as the heartbreak seeps in, tainting their perfect beauty. The jar stops that, to a degree, but it isn’t enough to keep them perfect. Any heart thief can buy such a jar. It’s not the secret of the Gentleman of Absence.

Not the reason I waited, even when I knew where it was all along. I could’ve stolen it anytime, if I didn’t mind the blemishes, but I do. I like them flawless, like their people never are, and I know how. I don’t steal. I only take. That which is given freely. Willingly. Lovingly.

She gave it to me. And I took it.

Christine once said she’d give me anything in the world. She never dreamed I’d take her up on that offer.

Now, I stare at it, and the rest, enraptured. Radiant. Resplendent. Mine.

The basement door melts back into the wall, sealing them away where they’ve never been before: where they’ll never be found. Weariness tugs at me after a sleepless night, but I couldn’t rest if I tried. Already, the need is pulling at me again. The burn. The itch. That gentle gravity that draws me back, time and time again. Back to the game.

In a few hours, the paper will arrive, and I’ll search the People’s column for a new inspiration. My next mark. My hands begin to tremble again.

I wonder…whose heart will be mine next?