Cat Burglar with a Moral Compass

When I was 6, I wanted to be a zookeeper. Upon my brother's insistence that penguin poo could only be removed with bare hands, I opted for a career change. 

At 10, I was set on becoming an Olympian. That was before my sister wrestled me off the bed for touching her Ballerina Barbie. I shattered my wrist and my dreams of pole-vaulting for gold. 

By 15, I got smart and opted for a line of work beyond sabotage. Every spare moment went into my father’s Cessna Skyhawk. First a passenger, then a co-pilot. At 16, I flew solo. Short trips. Missions, my father called them. It didn’t matter; I was airborne. Free. At least that’s what I thought. When I turned 17, my parents managed to taint that dream too.  

*** 

“Natalie, for the third time. Get dressed.” My mother breezed through the room, her long black cocktail dress trailing like a liquid shadow. 

“I don’t want to wear that.” I huffed as she ran a hand over the dark blue mess of chiffon laid out on my bed.  

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I didn’t ask what you wanted.” 

“And why would you. You don’t care.” It was a juvenile ticket to a guilt trip, but the pain was real. My mother sighed same argument different job.  

“Honey. Of course, I care. You’re such an important part of this family, of what we do.” 

“I never asked to be a part of what you do.”  

My mother closed the distance between us. She squeezed my hands and smiled. No warmth, just thinly veiled concern with a hint of irritation. She wore the look well and often.  

“You have no love for this life; I know that. But you have to put your hesitations aside. It is integral that tonight go as planned. Your father has worked his entire career around The Blue Tear. After this, we can take a break. I promise.”  

A barrage of arguments cued in my throat.  

I hate that every international agency has my mug shot.  

Every score makes me want to vomit.  

I’d rather clean up the penguin poo. 

The words choke me, and I fold under her ice-blue gaze. Full of onus. My mother is, first and foremost, a world-renowned thief. Inspirational pep talks are not amongst her impressive array of skills.  

“Fine,” I deflate. “I’ll be downstairs in 10 minutes.” 

40 minutes later, I'm sliding a watercolor monstrosity onto an easel at The Action House. Taking a step back, my skirt brushes against the identical uniform of the Porter at my side, and I watch the crowd in motion. Red paddles rise and fall as the Auctioneer chants. His voice becomes a rapid chorus of numbers and nonsense before the gavel strikes, and applause follows. Another set of suited Porters removes the painting while my identical twin and I place a very fragile, and notably ugly, vase on the pedestal. We take two steps back together, and I smooth down the fabric at my hip. At that, my mother moves from the bar to sit in the back row of bidders. My mother, the decoy. Her classy, Mediterranean look left no room for suspicion. Of course, she was a wealthy heiress buying ridiculously overpriced art. Killing time instead of her mogul father. My sister had the same effect on people. Camille’s long dark locks and deep brown gaze caught the attention of anyone with a heartbeat. Even the likely irregular tattoo of the liver-spotted antiquities dealer whispering God-knows-what into her ear. Camille, the distraction.  

The gavel fell, and the vase was immediately replaced by a lanky, gold statue of a very naked man. My years got the better of me, and a quiet chuckle slipped.  

“Grow up, Nat.” Ray’s voice in my ear shocked the grin clean off my face. Skulker. “Where’s our rock?” 

The Auctioneer rallied, red paddles rising in rapid succession. The raucous provided perfect cover. “It’s next. Be ready.” 

My brother scoffed. “I’m always ready.” 

“Like the Fieldman job? Pretty sure that laser field I walked into still gives my hair volume.” I mumbled to the earpiece. 

“Whatever. You’ve got a three-second window to swap out the diamond. On Cammy’s mark.” Ray’s voice cut out. In the crowd, Camille’s chin dipped with subtle delicacy. Message received. I brushed a palm against the smooth, warm teardrop nestled against my thigh. A replica, exact in cut, color, clarity. For all my goading, my brother was a damn genius. Ray, the brains. 

The dull thud of the gavel pulled my spine taught, and I blinked the room back into focus. Porters moved the lewd metallic man away, now the property of Camille’s geriatric date. A low hum of chatter and whispered gasps replaced the raucous, while a man who resembled Colonel Sanders with a monocle placed a black velvet case on the podium.  

The Auctioneer cleared his throat. “Our last and much-anticipated item. The magnificent, Blue Tear.” 

The Colonel flicked a silver latch, and the crowd gasped. I swallowed back bile. The Auctioneer went on. 

“9.75 carats,” 

Oh god. 

“Fancy vivid blue,” 

I can’t do this. 

“Elongated teardrop diamond.” 

Yep, I'm going to vomit.   

“Focus, Natalie,” my father’s voice rang in my ears. “We don’t have time for your skepticism today.” 

My chin dipped out of habit, dislodging my heart from my throat. Bidding commenced, and red paddles sprung up from the crowd like a sea of blooming poppies.  

“This is it. You all know what to do. I want it to be flawless.” My father may have addressed the family, but his words were for me.  

My father, the mastermind. The man could melt into a crowd of aristocrats seamlessly. Like my mother, he oozed a level of dignified class that only the obscenely wealthy could manage. Yet, unlike my mother, who raised her paddle and first bid, my father held court at the bar. A puppet master pulling many strings.  

“$30 million to the Lady in black.” 

My pulse quickened, feeding my panic a fresh serve of adrenaline. It was wrong. It was all so wrong. Sweat adhered the knock-off trinket to my leg. The seamless pocket felt more like it housed a lead weight, dragging me straight to hell.  

“Dad, she’s gonna blow.” Ray’s voice held its usual pompous tone. 

“Natalie. Save the crisis of conscience; it’s now or never.” 

I let out a shaky breath. Why couldn’t it be never? 

I’d only been brave enough to ask my father why me once before. Not because I was afraid of the man. He was like a stern Tom Selleck with the mustache to match. No. I was afraid of the answer. Camille was an eye-catching beauty, Ray a technical Savant, and I was as plain and forgettable as they came. Not a Cameleon. A void. Natalie, the cat burglar with a moral compass.  

“$35 million. That’s $35 million going once,”  

My insides revolted as my hand moved to the dress pocket, fingers brushing the jewel's many faces.  

“Going twice,” 

I shifted weight to my back foot. Every muscle in my body protesting the intent. 

“Sold to the woman in the black dress.” 

Oh, my wanning soul, forgive me.  

My father would have been proud. It was life imitating art. The gavel fell, and so did Camille. In the most dramatically realistic syncopal episode, you could imagine. My mother sprung from her chair, the crowd applauding The Blue Tear’s new owner. Cheers turned to screams as people fell to their knees for my beautiful sister. A dizzying fold of panic and confusion threw the wealthy from their chairs. I surged forward, enacting protocol, my twin a step behind. The gauzy fabric of my skirt fluttered as I used my body to barricade the podium. My hands were quick. Practiced. Utterly forgettable. Four guards closed ranks around us while my skin prickled, warming the small fortune at my thigh.  

Within seconds, the Colonel arrived, a small silver briefcase cuffed at his wrist. Swaddled in black velvet, the diamond disappeared. The case flanked by guards until it was out of sight.  

Dismissed, I moved through the crowd. Just another concerned onlooker, gravitating towards the fallen woman who somehow looked more stunning in a heap on the floor.  

“Ma’am.” I shook Camile’s shoulder lightly, tucking the body warmed stone into her bodice. She grimaced, and her pickled date spurred into action.  

“Clear the way. Give the lady room.” 

The wealthy shuffled back, hushed whispers becoming a wave of murmuring chatter. My mother’s shrieking voice took the racket to its crescendo. 

“...absolutely not. I insist a valuation be carried out.” 

“I can assure you, madame. Our security procedures were followed to the letter. Your purchase is secure and awaits your collection post cleared funds.” The Auctioneer’s smile was a forced thing. He had my deepest sympathies; my mother was a difficult woman.   

*** 

“You did so well tonight, love. I’ll admit, it looked bleak for a minute there. You had that spiraling look about you,” my mother trailed off as she flitted around my room, straightening family photos and collecting dirty laundry. Yes, even subjects of an INTERPOL Red Notice must do laundry. 

“Thanks, I think,” I mumbled. “Goodnight, Mum.” 

“Goodnight, love.” 

The door snicked shut, and footsteps faded to silence. I sagged into the mattress, feeling dull at every nerve ending. Each job leached my essence, my very soul. I stood at a precipice, soon to lose the last sliver of myself. Or to put an end to it.   

I threw back the sheets and freed my pack for the closet, buried beneath a lifetime of camouflage and immorality. I bit back a curse as I worked the aching burr from my sock and into my palm. The Auctioneer certainly hadn’t exaggerated the magnificent nature of the Blue Tear, though his security procedures left something to be desired. As did my parent's keen eye for authenticity.   

On silent feet, I covered the ground to the hanger. My father’s Cessna Skyhawk fueled and waiting just as I'd left it. I tried in vain to clear my heart from my throat as I took one last thing that didn’t belong to me.