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run. Better to escape than to risk a struggle and possible identification. There would be other opportunities.
    He shifted into a squat and peered through the window. Dark and quiet inside. Marissa was sprawled on the bed, her white, long-haired cat a huddled lump on her chest. The feline’s eyes shone at Allard, freezing his hand on the windowsill. He hated pets, cats especially. They were unpredictable creatures. One loud meow at the wrong moment and the girl might be jarred out of her sleep.
    Allard tilted his head. There was the bag. He’d watched as a lethargic Marissa had lugged the suitcase into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor. He’d been prepared to intervene should she discover the treasure he’d hidden inside, but his luck had held. She hadn’t bothered to unpack. Instead she’d given the thing a kick to shove it under her bed.
    One corner stuck out, tempting him.
    The window was locked. He was certain that he could get in after a bit of jimmying. Hadn’t he already bypassed high-tech security systems in his quest for the White Star?
    But there was the cat.
    The damn cat. His nemesis. Allard’s father, a minor thief and total asshole, had taught him that the smallest detail, if overlooked, could ultimately exact the greatest cost. Yet when he’d seen his son’s irrational fear of cats, he’d sneeringly called Jean La Souri Noire—the dark mouse—on their midnight excursions. To this day, he believed cats were bad luck.
    The feline watched Allard, twitching its fluffy tail. After a moment of debate, he eased away from the window. For now, the White Star was safe.
    Unlike his drunken lout of a father, he was a patient man. He would watch and wait for his next chance and when it came, he would be ready.
    Not even the cat would prevent his fated reunion with the amulet.

    S OMEONE was breaking in!
    Marissa bolted upright from a dense sleep, sending Harry shooting off the bed with his tail upright. The cat yowled and streaked away into the darkness—toward the sound of the front door closing. That was odd, but Marissa didn’t think it through. She was scrabbling over the nightstand to find her phone.
    Not there. Not freaking there.
    She heard a person moving around in the living room without even trying to be quiet. Marissa swallowed thickly as she slid out of bed. Fear was acrid; her mouth tasted like she’d been chewing on tin foil.
    Two crimes within hours. Shocking even for a New Yorker.
    A light went on in the other room. Marissa dropped down, crouching behind the far side of the bed. She felt around for a weapon, finding a silk scarf, a flimsy chain belt, a Chinese takeout container that had fallen beneath the bed. Maybe there were chopsticks? Why hadn’t she obeyed her mother, who’d said that the city was dangerous and Marissa must always sleep with a butcher knife under the mattress?
    Aha. A shoe. Her fingers closed on a four-inch heel that could serve as a dagger.
    She crept toward the door, shoe in hand. Would a spike heel through an eyeball work as a defense? Only in the movies, but maybe she’d gain time to run out the door.
    A thud sounded from the other room, a thud she could have sworn was the sound of feet dropping onto the wood coffee table. She’d heard that thud a hundred times when Jamie came over to watch TV.
    But he wasn’t out there. Unless…
    She remembered how they’d kissed on the street and suddenly her lips became plump and tingly. An absurd reaction under the circumstances. Granted, Jamie had a key, but he wouldn’t come back—would he?—hoping for…
    An early morning booty break-in? Not likely.
    Marissa edged out the door, ready to strike even though her confused instincts had taken the fear down a few notches. She knew something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t tell what.
    One small lamp was on, leaving the room filled with dusky shadows. She narrowed her eyes. There was a person on the couch. Bent over. Making shuffling noises.
    Going through my stuff.