“Trust me, I’m crying on the inside. You’re not exactly breaking down, either. And you knew those people.”

“I don’t like this any more than you do.”

She didn’t seem convinced. Nick felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t mind being judged—professionals in robes had done it to him more often than he’d liked to admit. But for some reason, he didn’t want Hailey to get the wrong impression.

“I take things. But I don’t hurt people.”

“Taking things hurts people.”

Nick didn’t have an answer for that. He could have pointed out that he’d found her hiding in a casino, that she hadn’t called the police on him after three dead bodies, and that she’d been by his side ever since she’d seen the photograph of the stolen Vermeer. But the truth was, her words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He’d always drawn a stark line between himself and the sort of criminals he’d found himself locked up with at Shirley. He was a thief, sure—he’d gone from being a teenager who’d broken into the neighbors’ homes when they were away to a young adult knocking over ATM machines and parking meters. And then the short hop to real B&Es—gas stations, convenience stores. But it wasn’t until he’d moved onto banks that he started to realize sooner or later, lines get crossed no matter how well you planned things out, or how careful you tried to be.

Case in point, the job that had gotten him sent to Shirley for a medium haul. He’d hit five banks in six weeks, all without a hitch—because he’d worked fast and had never gotten greedy. All of them, sleepy branches after hours, outdated safety systems and underpaid security guards with shift changes so predictable, you could use them to set your watch. He’d kept to the teller drawers and avoided the vaults and deposit boxes—gotten in and out in under ten minutes each time, avoiding cameras and silent triggers with ease.

Job number six should have gone just as smoothly. And in fact, it had been going smoothly; Nick had come in through an underground parking garage, disabling two separate alarm systems, and had emptied the teller drawers, avoiding the packets of big bills with the dye charges and the oddly rigid-looking twenties stacked on the pressure alarm triggers. He’d been about to make his way back through the garage—when he’d nearly run headfirst into a portly security guard coming out of the bank manager’s private bathroom. The guy had still been working his belt closed when he’d seen Nick and realized what was happening. Then they’d both gone for the guard’s holstered .45.