“You’re already famous,” I teased.

  “Ah, right,” he said, his face dropping a little.

  I immediately felt guilty for making him look like that.

  “But enough about me, let’s talk about you!” he said, forcing a smile.

  He was off his game. Ordinarily, he would’ve done a better job of hiding what he was really feeling from me.

  Maybe he was just sick of hiding what he was feeling from everyone.

  “Thank you for sending me your journal,” he said, placing his hands down on the table between us. “I loved reading about everything you’ve been up to. You’re such a great writer, too! Who knew? And of course, I came off rather well, if I do say so myself.”

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “You’re only saying that because I’m your daughter,” I argued. “And you have to like what I wrote—I’m just like you. Only cuter.”

  “Well, that’s true,” he said with a laugh. Then his eyes turned down to stare at his hands and his voice got quieter. “But I’ve been thinking…maybe you should focus more on being just like you and less like me.”

  I blinked at him, not quite understanding the words that were coming out of his mouth.

  “Huh?” I asked, scrunching up my face in confusion.

  “It’s just, after reading your journal and hearing about you and your friend pulling the job on that Miles character, it got me thinking that…maybe it’s time for you to retire.”

  I stared at him blankly now.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  My dad looked up at me then and I could see that he was struggling with what to say next. But I didn’t care. If it was such a struggle for him, then maybe he shouldn’t be saying it.

  “Look, I loved traveling around with you all those years. And you were the best partner I’ve ever had—and that’s even with your mom thrown into the ring,” he said, trying to lighten things up. “But now I’m in here, and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you out there. Why not put the past on a shelf and be a normal kid for once?”

  “Because being normal sucks,” I said angrily. “Did you not read the part of my journal where I talked about my useless classes at school and the lame girls who are awful to everyone?”

  “I did,” he responded, trying to keep his tone even. “And I was proud of how you handled it. I just think that maybe you could redirect all the effort you put into doing a job and stand up for people…at your school. Maybe put the thief side of you away for a while.”

  I shook my head.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said incredulously.

  “Frankie, I just want what’s best for you—”

  “What’s best for me is for you to not be in here,” I spatted. “What’s best for me is for life to go back to normal. For me to have my old dad back, and for you to not ask me to change who I am. That’s what would be best for me.”

  My dad’s mouth was hanging open in surprise. He hadn’t expected my outburst. Heck, I hadn’t expected my outburst. But here we were.

  “Frankie—”

  I could feel hot tears starting to form in the corners of my eyes and didn’t want to be here when they began to pour out.

  “No, I get it. You don’t want me to be like you anymore,” I said, standing up clumsily. My voice was shaky and it was giving away more emotion than I cared to share with a roomful of strangers. I could see the hurt and guilt on my dad’s face, but I was too upset to care.

  Good.

  He should be hurt by what he’d said. Because I was hurt too.

  “You want me to be a normal kid, Dad?” I asked him, slamming my hands down on the table. “Fine. How’s this for normal kid behavior.”

  And then I turned around and stormed out of the room, leaving him calling out after me.

  Entry Nine

  I was eight years old when I pulled my first heist.

  It had taken me over two years of hard work, pleading and studying my dad’s every move to finally convince him I was ready. And when I did, I was so excited that I didn’t sleep for a week. Which, in hindsight, was not a smart move since you need to be on top of your game to break into someone’s place without making any mistakes.

  Now, I always go to bed early the night before a job.

  “So, what are we gonna take?” I asked, practically jumping up and down when Dad had told me he’d finally chosen a target. “Jewelry? Money? A pair of limited edition Yeezys?”

  “Better than all of that,” Dad said, his face lit up with excitement.

  What could be better than a pair of Yeezys?

  “We’re going to steal…a barrel!”

  For a second I thought maybe I was hearing things.

  “Wait—huh?” I asked.

  “We’re going to steal a barrel,” he repeated with the same level of enthusiasm as before.

  “Um, why?” I asked, confused. “Is it full of gold or something?”

  My dad smiled.

  “Something,” he said.

  Then he proceeded to lay out the entire plan, part by part for me. Before he was even finished explaining, I was fully hooked and on board.

  When we arrived at a chateau in France weeks later, my stomach felt queasy. Not because I was nervous.

  But because I was excited.

  “I can’t believe I’m finally doing this!” I squealed as we drove up.

  I caught my dad grinning out of the corner of my eye. He was trying to play it cool, but I knew this was as big a moment for him as it was for me. His baby girl was officially growing up, and even if he wasn’t showing it, he was as psyched as I was.

  We drove up to the old castle and I pointed to a place down the street where we could park under cover of darkness. Dad nodded and pulled our truck into the spot under the building’s wall, killing the engine before turning to me.

  “You ready for this?” he asked me.

  “I was born ready,” I said.

  Dad chuckled, but then his face grew serious.

  “I’ve gotta ask you one more time—and I really want you to think about your answer before you give it—are you sure you want to do this? Right now is like that poem we just read the other day. The one about the two roads and which path to take? This is like that.”

  “Well, which road’s better?” I asked simply.

  “Neither is better or worse,” he said. “They’re just different. And you can’t know where they’ll lead until you’re already too far out. You just have to listen to your gut and follow your own compass.”

  I glanced up at the castle and stared at the outline in the night. Then I looked back at my dad.

  “I want to take the road you’re taking,” I said, absolutely sure this was the right answer for me.

  Dad resisted the urge to smile in victory and reached over to squeeze my shoulder instead.

  “All right,” he said, getting out of the car and attaching his utility belt around his waist. “Let’s do this then.”

  I climbed out after him, tossing the bag full of tools over my shoulder.

  It was heavy. About fifteen pounds. And given that I only weighed fifty soaking wet, it was a lot. But I was prepared for it. I’d walked around with the bag on my back everywhere I’d gone for the past week.

  Now it felt more a part of me than a purse would.

  “You know, that speech back there was great and all, but you kind of sealed my fate when you named me Frankie,” I said, walking in the opposite direction of the castle.

  “What are you talking about? Frankie’s a great name!” Dad argued, grabbing the end of a large, flexible hose from the back of the car and connecting it to a latch on his belt. He gave it a tug and it unwound with ease from the spool it was attached to and made a little pile at his feet.

  “Hey, I’m on board with it,” I said, throwing up my hands defensively. “I’m just saying that if you’d wanted me to choose a different lifestyle than this, maybe you shouldn’t have named me after another famous thief.” “Frank Abagnale Jr. isn’t just another famous thief,” Dad corrected. “He’s the ultimate thief. Please tell me I don’t have to educate you on him again.”

  “No, I get it,” I said, cutting him off before the lecture began. “He’s the man. What I mean is that when you name your daughter after someone, what else do you expect her to be? Of course I was going to become a thief. It’s my namesake.”

  Dad turned his back to the wall and placed his bag on the ground. Then he crouched into a squat in front of it, looking like a cheerleader on those ESPN competitions.

  “Fair enough,” he said, putting one hand on top of the other, palms facing up. “But you always have a choice, Frankie. Namesake or not, I’d never push you to do this. The life of a thief isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  I took a running three steps and then put my foot into his hands, pushed off of his shoulders, and kept my body tight as he tossed me up over his head and onto the top of the wall.

  “Duh,” I said, swinging one leg over until I was straddling it. “But what else was I supposed to grow up to be? A doctor? A teacher? Yeah, right.”

  “If you get your own protégé one day, you’ll pretty much become a teacher, you know,” Dad pointed out. “And I bet you’ll be good at it.”

  It was Dad’s turn to take a run at the wall and I watched as he ran two steps up the side and threw his hands up to grip the top edge. Then, without missing a beat, he popped his body up so it was level with mine.

  “Nice,” I said, before slipping down the other side and dropping to the ground gracefully. “And she sticks the landing.”

  Dad jumped down next, performing a little forward roll as he landed. The hose trailed behind him as he moved.

  “Show-off,” I said sarcastically.

  Dad pulled out a little black box the size of a walkie-talkie and pushed a button. As soon as the light went on, I knew all the cameras in the area had been scrambled, and we were free to move about undetected. The guards on watch would obviously know something was up with the monitors, but by the time they decided to come check it out, we’d already be gone.

  “Did Mom think I’d be a thief?” I asked him as we made our way down the grass-covered hill to the chateau cellars.

  There was a pause behind me. “She wasn’t sure. When you were little, you used to tell her you wanted to be a mouse when you grew up. Or an ear, nose, and throat doctor.”

  I made a face. Why the heck had I wanted to be that kind of doctor? With all the snot and ear wax and stuff? Gross.

  I totally got the mouse thing, though. I still really like cheese.

  “Mom didn’t care what you wanted to be as long as you chose your own passion,” Dad continued as we moved across the grounds. “She didn’t get much freedom in that when she was growing up, and she didn’t want the same for you. With that said, she saw a lot of herself in you. Even as a baby, you seemed to excel at certain things that made her wonder if you got more than just her looks.”

  We arrived at the cellar within minutes, and Dad began to work his magic on the lock.

  “So, she’d be happy with my choice then?” I asked him, not wanting to sound too needy. Even at the age of eight, I guarded my emotions a bit. It was something I’d learned through watching Dad and his colleagues who were in the business. Emotions could give people something to prey on. Because when people knew you cared about something—a person, objects, approval, love—they also knew what to use against you.

  Having emotions made you human. Showing your emotions could be your undoing.

  With that said, Dad had always made it clear that there wasn’t anything I could do that would disappoint—or shock—him. And he never judged. Because chances are he’d been there himself.

  Dad swung open the cellar door and took a little bow, to which I clapped silently. Then he gestured for me to go ahead before turning on the little headlamp he was wearing so we could see where we were going.

  “Are you kidding? Your mom would be so proud of you, Frankie,” he said. “But not because you decided to follow in our footsteps. She’d be proud because you’re blazing your own trail.”

  I looked down at my feet as I descended the cellar stairs, listening to the echoes my shoes made as I went.

  “I’m not really blazing anything yet,” I countered as I reached the bottom and then stared into the cavernous room. “This whole plan was yours. I’m just along for the ride.”

  I slid the bag from my shoulders and rummaged inside until I found what I was looking for. Pulling the grappling hook launcher out, I nearly dropped it as I handed it over to him. It was actually what had made my bag so freaking heavy. But it was integral to our plan, so I hadn’t complained when it had literally weighed me down.

  “It’s not just my plan,” Dad argued, checking the launcher to make sure all the gear was in place. “This next part is all you.”

  I grinned because he was right.

  Retrieving a container of flour and a handheld fan from the bag, I stood back up and looked off into the darkness. Then, I turned on the fan, took a handful of the white powder, and watched as it swirled all over the room.

  The particles quickly exposed the infrared lights coming from the room’s alarm system which zig-zagged along the floor, making it impossible for someone to cross without setting it off.

  Around us, the whole place was made out of large chunks of rock, and it felt like we were in a dungeon instead of a room that stored casks of expensive brandy. Though the alcohol was sold by the bottle, it was made by the barrel.

  And that was why we were here.

  Dad had learned through the grapevine that this particular alcohol company was about to launch a cognac that would retail for $5,000 a bottle. One of the most expensive of its kind.

  So, why were we after it?

  Because a bottle of the stuff held 750 milliliters of liquid gold.

  But a barrel held nearly 160,000 milliliters.

  If you’re fast at math, you know that that’s worth…well, a heck of a lot of money.

  And as I stood there in the cellar I counted at least twenty-four barrels in front of us.

  “I’m thinking…there,” I said, pointing to a spot on the ceiling in the middle of the room.

  Dad gave a thumbs-up and took aim at the rocky place on the ceiling that split the distance between us and the first set of barrels. The brown wooden casks were stacked on top of each other, four barrels high, and stood in three separate rows down the length of the cavernous room. All I needed to do was get to the closest one.

  I held up my thumb to Dad, the signal that he should let loose the grappling hook launcher, and then watched as the four-pronged metal blades soared through the air before embedding into the rock above us.

  “How did you know you wanted to be a thief?” I asked as he tested out the rope to make sure it was really stuck in there, and then handed it to me. As much as we talked about our line of work, I’d never really asked him this basic question before.

  Dad took the hose from his belt and attached it to mine. Then I climbed back up a few steps and gripped the rope in my hands.

  “How did I know I wanted to be a thief…,” Dad mused out loud. “Well, your grandmother Rose used to say I was mischievous from the start. I was always obsessed with breaking in to—and out of—things. There wasn’t a kid gate or lock I couldn’t get around. And then when your uncle Scotty arrived, it became even more apparent that I was the robber to his cop.”

  I laughed because Uncle Scotty had turned out to be a cop in the end. And for as much as Dad stole over his lifetime, his brother was working on stopping other bad guys from stealing stuff, too. I guess in a weird way, they sort of canceled each other out.

  “I suppose in the end, I just always knew who I was supposed to be,” he finished.

  “I get that,” I said, nodding. And it was true. There was something about all this that just felt…right. I couldn’t explain it other than it seemed natural that I was here.

  Like this was what I was born to do.

  I gathered the excess rope so it wouldn’t drag across the floor, and Dad held up the hose behind me, ready to feed it. Then with a deep breath, I leaned back and jumped into the darkness.

  Soaring across the room in that moment was what I imagined it was like for normal kids when they climbed on a rope swing at a lake or river. Only, there was no bailing out, dropping into the water. Because my landing had to be precisely timed and executed so that I’d end up on top of the closest barrel and not on the floor below.

  The experience was exhilarating, scary, fun, and incredibly freeing.

  And lasted all of three seconds.

  As my feet touched the wood barrel on the other side, I swayed a bit until I was sure I had my balance, and then turned around to face my dad. Feeling a bit smug over my execution, I threw my arms up in triumph.

  And then I may or may not have done a little victory dance.

  “Careful, Frankie,” Dad warned, though he seemed to be getting a kick out of watching me.

  I waved my hand at him dismissively.

  “I could do this with my eyes closed,” I said, clenching them shut as I said it.

  “Please don’t,” Dad said with a groan.

  “Sorry, Dad. Can’t rein me in,” I said, continuing to wiggle around.

  Just as I was copying a dance move I’d seen on YouTube, I somehow stepped down wrong and instantly began to fall. Circling my arms through the air wildly, I tried to steady myself, but it was too late. So I did the only thing I could think of and collapsed onto the barrel to keep from ending up on the floor.

  I continued to grip the barrel, hands trembling and face smashed against the grainy wood, until I was positive I hadn’t set off any alarms. Finally, I lifted my eyes sheepishly.

  “Okay, maybe you can rein me in a little,” I mumbled.

 

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