I march back over to the gates, wading through the puddles that have already formed on the driveway. I move down the length of the gates, feeling past the ivy for any openings in the wrought iron where I might be able to slip through. I'm relatively tiny, but the ironwork here is pretty elaborate, all curly-cues and closed spiral patterns. Finally, about halfway down the length of the gate, I find a spot where I think I can squeeze by. It's about chest high, which means I'll have to climb a little to get to it, but I think I'm up for it.
"Oh, no," I cry in mocking challenge over the rain. "You guys better come and stop me." I grip the iron bars with both hands and pause, waiting to hear the approach of a security guard through the rain.
No one comes.
I raise one foot up onto the gate and then the other, and I begin to climb. The metal is cold and slick beneath my fingers, but that wild, reckless feeling is building in my belly again. I move carefully but deliberately, kicking through the vines to find the footholds, clutching the bars with white knuckles. When I'm high enough, I pause again.
"Aren't you going to stop me?" I call up to the camera.
Apparently, the answer is no.
I bring one leg up and through the break in the ironwork, then slide forward until my upper body is through. I glance around for security guards, but I don't see anyone or anything that might stop me.
Is it really this easy? Can I honestly just climb down onto the Cunningham property?
I pull myself through the rest of the way, clinging desperately to the bars as my feet fumble for new footholds. I'm breaking into the Cunningham estates. This is crazy. I'm crazy. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I'm not sure whether I want to laugh or vomit.
"I guess no one minds I'm here?" I call into the rain.
I take the resulting silence as consent.
The climb down is more difficult than the climb up. My fingers are colder now from the rain and they're starting to get stiff. The vines seem to be thicker on this side, and one gets tangled around my leg. I manage to free myself, but I'm more than grateful when my feet finally hit solid ground again.
I stand there, frozen, and wait for the alarms to go off. Shouldn't there be blaring sirens or flashing lights or something? Shouldn't a pack of vicious Dobermans come charging down the driveway to rip me to shreds?
Apparently the Cunningham family's security measures aren't as good as I thought.
I smile to myself. I’ve never felt this reckless before, but I think it agrees with me. I know I’m being insane, but I don’t care. I’ve come here to save the Center, and there’s no turning back now.
Calder Cunningham won’t even know what hit him.
CHAPTER TWO
I've only met Calder once in person, but that was enough. It was at the Frazer Center's Arts & Hearts fundraiser, a black tie dinner we host every Valentine's Day in our gallery space. The affair is our most formal event of the year, and in addition to raising a good chunk of money, it's our chance to honor our biggest donors and supporters. Wentworth Cunningham attended the event every year, but last February—about five months before he died—he brought his son Calder along as well.
I’ll admit it: I was excited to meet the infamous heir to the Cunningham fortune. I mean, you can’t even pop through the supermarket checkout line without spotting him on one of the tabloids—usually on some Italian beach with the latest “it” girl. I was curious. I couldn’t help it.
Calder was, at first glance, everything I expected. There seems to be one in every "old money" family: the son with the good looks and bad behavior to spare. He definitely lived up to his photos. Some would call him the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. In another life, if he hadn't been born into insane amounts of money—or if he decided that partying and womanizing weren't enough of a career for him—he might have made his own millions as a model.
He's the kind of guy who expects his looks and his money to get him out of anything. He’s also the kind of guy who looks down his nose at events thrown by small arts organizations.
Calder spent the entire evening of Arts & Hearts looking bored out of his mind and sipping aloofly at his wine.
I’d hoped to never see him again.
But I'm not about to let him get away this time. This time I'm going to make him take responsibility for his actions, even if the rest of the world won't.
I bow my head against the wind and march up his driveway. The massive live oaks overhead don't do much to block the rain, but the discomfort from the wetness seeping down my back only fuels my anger and determination.
"Hey!”
The voice cuts through the storm, and my head jerks up. I glance around, and it takes me a moment to spot the figure through the rain.
It’s a man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes. A security guard.
And he’s coming at me. Fast.
I panic. Yes, it was only a few minutes ago that I was trying to catch the attention of the security team, but now that some guy’s charging at me through the rain, my fight or flight response kicks in. I bolt.
I run off the driveway and between two of the trees, cutting across the grass in what I hope is the direction of the house. One of my flats slips off my foot, but I keep going, my toes gripping the mud as I sprint. There are lights up ahead—house lights, I hope. I need to get to Calder.
I don't dare look over my shoulder, but the security guard is gaining. His footsteps slap against the wet ground, and they're getting louder.
I have to outrun him.
My other shoe falls off my slick foot. I almost slip. I can just make out the house ahead of me now, a dark shape against the dark sky. I’m so close. Just a little farther—
The guard slams into me, pushing me down to the ground with him on top of me. The air whooshes out of me as I hit the mud, but I recover quickly. I twist beneath his weight, trying to fight my way out of his grasp.
"Let go of me!" I say, swinging my elbow at him.
I hit him in the gut. He grunts, and his grip loosens on my waist. I try to wriggle away, but he grabs me by the knees.
"Let go!" I say again. I kick at him.
He tries to catch my ankle. "Ms.—oof—Frazer."
I manage to get one leg loose. His grip on the other one is too strong. He flips me over so that I'm on my back, and he lunges forward, catching each of my arms before I can swing at him again. He's straddling me, pinning me down, and struggle as I might I can't get free.
"Get off of me," I say.
His breathing is heavy from the exertion. He leans down closer to me.
"And why should I do that, Ms. Frazer?" he says. "You're trespassing on my property."