Free The Inside Job by Jackson Pearce Page A

no—when we walked up, he merely tipped his head to us, smiled, and held the door. We were in.
    Now we just needed to find some kids our age. Here was what I figured—the books were likely stolen by one of the adults at Hastings’s birthday party. Those adults were in their sixties now. And their kids—the ones who were Hastings’s age—were in their thirtiesand forties. But
their
kids would be around my age and, if I had to guess, didn’t even know those fancy jeweled books in their family castle were stolen. Because, come on—what kind of parent would tell his children that dear old mom and dad were thieves?
    We found a handful of kids our age down by the pool. There were only about six or seven total—hanging out at your parents’ country club probably wasn’t the most popular of activities—but together they looked like a
collection
. These kids all looked like variations on the same thing—the same way stamps or coins or different types of cats are all variations on the same thing. They all had the same bored expression. They all had on designer sunglasses. Almost all were tapping away on phones or tablets or laptops. The handful that wasn’t was lying on towels, looking bored, or reapplying lip gloss (both the boys
and
the girls).
    Two girls looked up as we walked into the pool area. Their eyes glanced off me immediately; when they saw Walter, they tipped their sunglasses down their noses and grinned.
    I ducked my head so no one would see me talking into my comm. “Beatrix, we’ve got two girls—thirteenish. One brown hair, one blond hair. Blonde has a Band-Aid on her arm, the sort you’d get after you get a shot—”
    â€œOkay, okay, hang on . . .” Beatrix typed frantically back at the
poney
farm. “Perfect—the blonde is Aria
Stoneman
—she’s the youngest of the Stoneman family, and they were at Hastings’s party. Pulling up records now . . . Looks like Aria just got inoculations for a glamping trip to Africa.”
    â€œGlamping?” Walter muttered.
    â€œGlamour camping. It’s like camping, only the tent is a five-star tent with running water and a Jacuzzi.”
    â€œWow. Okay,
glamping
. Got it,” I said, which was a lie. I most certainly did not have this. We approached.
    â€œHey,” I said. Walter grinned at me, as if to say,
Strong start!
    â€œHi,” Aria said simply, though not unkindly. “You’re new.”
    I laughed nervously. “Yeah—to this club, anyway. I’m George. This is Ringo.” Walter frowned at his new fake name—but it wasn’t like we could have been Albert and Victor Kessel to
these
people. They probably knew the real Kessel brothers, or at least, would know that we weren’t them.
    Beatrix tittered in my ear. “Ringo?”
    Aria smiled. Her teeth were perfectly straight. “Parents have a thing for the Beatles, huh? My name’s Aria. Were you two out riding?”
    I laughed a little. “Yeah. Didn’t think to bring a change of clothes, and now we’re stuck here till Dad finishes his golf game.”
    â€œI know the feeling,” Aria said. “My mom’s always,
Aria, they have a pool! It’ll be fun!
And then I’m stuck here forhours and hours and hours. Like I don’t have anything better to do than sit at her country club—”
    â€œGlamping. I know what glamping is,” Walter interrupted. I lifted my eyebrows at him.
Slick, Walter. Slick.
    â€œUh . . . cool,” Aria said, then looked back to her book.
    Walter gave me an apologetic look; I tried not to sigh too heavily at him. I turned my head to give Beatrix physical descriptions as often as I could, and eventually, she’d helped me pinpoint Jeffery Alabaster and Archimedes St. Claire in addition to Aria. Three grandchildren of our potential art thieves.
    Those were the kids we
had
to get