Nothing very definite, Self said.
“Of course not.”
Just this: What would Mom say?
“Mom would probably say, ‘Turn your stumbling block into a stepping-stone!’”
Well, Riley, Self said. That sounds pretty smart. Maybe Mom was right. She usually was right about these things.
“Okay, Self, sure. And I know this is kind of practical and all, but—you got any idea how to turn my stumbling block into a stepping-stone?”
I expected another Momism, probably something that rhymed this time. Instead, I got a surprise.
Because just like that, Self had an idea.
It was just a whisper at first. Then it got a little louder. It grew, and it kept growing, and little pieces started falling into line behind it. And it got even louder, and more pieces clicked into place, and all of a sudden it was an idea and it was really loud.
I sat up real straight and listened. Then I stood up. I walked down to the dock, thinking about it. I walked back thinking about it some more. Then I went inside and looked at the trapdoor to the basement. Then I went back out and stood on the porch again. Just stood for a minute.
I’d been thinking about the whole thing the wrong way.
I’d been thinking I had to steal the wall, just because the fresco was on it, or in it.
Wrong.
And I’d been thinking that even if I did that, whichever asshole survived, he’d have Riley’s ass on a platter anyway.
Also wrong.
And I’d been thinking of it as separate problems, and if I didn’t solve the first one—stealing the wall—then the second one would eat me, and my finger would still hurt, and I’d have to shoot the woman in the basement and then dig a grave with a hurt finger—and that was wrong, too. Not the part about the finger—the rest of it.
Wrong, wrong, wrong—and wrong had never felt so right. Because Mom was right. I had to look at the trees. And then the forest got clear.
Which it was starting to do. If I thought about this a little bit differently—if I really did turn my stumbling blocks into stepping-stones—
Damn. It was actually pretty simple. I could do this. Dangerous as hell—I had to put everything into the middle of the table if it was going to come off at all, risk things I’d never risked before—but yeah, this could work. It really could. If I could just find the one final key piece, it was going to work.
Now if only my finger would stop hurting. Fucking plastic.
And just like that, the final piece clicked into place. Not the finger—the plastic. Of course.
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “That’s it.”
It really was it. It really could work. No, goddamn it, it would work!
It meant shoving everything into the middle of the table, something I’d never done before—but the biggest pot needs the biggest bet. And this was the biggest it had ever been. Not just my life and liberty, which is, let’s face it, pretty fucking important. And it was in there this time, too. But this time all the other stuff I cared about was on the chopping block, too. It meant Monique would have to be not just my expert forger but part of the play, which she had never done before, and I didn’t know if she could pull it off. Even Mom would have to play a part. I would have to move her again, and put her out there where she was visible. I hated like hell to risk her at all, but I was in total endgame this time.
Total risk—total gamble. Because that was the only way. That was the bad news.
The good news? It would work. There was a way to do this.
“There’s always a way,” I said—and I said it out loud. Because there was a way, and I had found it.
And they’d love it in Frankfurt.
I went inside and opened up the basement trapdoor. “Come on up,” I said. “I’ve got a job for you.”
22