Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER ONE
THE BREAK-IN

The keys to Hyde's Camino were missing.

Not misplaced. Missing.

Hyde had ransacked his room looking for them. He'd checked every drawer and pocket he owned, but all he found were two pennies and a crumpled cigarette. His house keys were on the dresser, where he usually left them. His Camino keys, however, had their own key chain It was a safety precaution. "Never put your keys in one basket, man," Leo had told him once. "That way, if you lose half of them, you'll know where the other half is … or is that eggs?"

The idiom was wrong, but Hyde had taken Leo's advice. Home for him was a temporary state, just like family. He'd learned that lesson well the last two years. The Camino, though—it was as close to permanent as any place would get. And it was mobile, perfect for someone who needed to keep on moving.

He peeked inside his baggie of pot, a last-ditch guess. Maybe he'd gotten so stoned last night he'd dropped the keys into his stash. It was a possibility. An embarrassing one.

Spring break had allowed for extended, solitary toking sessions, but getting that high brought strange thoughts and lapses of memory. Had someone been in his room last night? He couldn't remember, and his neck and face grew hot with blood. Blacking out was his parents' deal, but apparently it had become his, too.

His fingers dug through the green. No keys. The only escape his stash offered was from one dead end to another.

"Damn it!" He slammed his hand against the dresser. The prospect of turning eighteen hovered over his neck like a guillotine blade. He'd planned on driving to the lake today. Communing with nature would give him perspective, renew his faith that endings always led to some kind of beginning.

But he didn't have his keys, so he couldn't drive anywhere. Clearly, they weren't in his room. One of his bonehead friends must have borrowed them.

He went into the basement, where those bonehead friends were watching The Hollywood Squares. A game show's title had never been more apt, but he kept the observation to himself. Forman was in Hyde's chair, sitting a good distance from Donna. Eight months they'd spent like that, on the opposite sides of a room. Their breakup seemed a done deal, but Hyde couldn't change it. Reality inevitably swerved in an unexpected directions. All a person could do was try to hold on.

"Forman," he said, "you see my car keys 'round here?"

Forman glanced at the spool table, as if that counted as a thorough search. "Nope. Sorry."

"Man..." Hyde rubbed the nape of his still-hot neck, "I turned my room inside-out, but I can't find the freakin' things."

"Maybe aliens took them," Kelso said. He was sprawled out on the couch, knees wide apart. "Aliens'll take anything."

Fez nodded beside him. "It's true. Rhonda bought me M&Ms for our six-month anniversary, but all I got was a giant, empty bag. She said aliens sucked the candy right out of it..." He bared his teeth and shook his fist in the air. "Get your own candy, you stupid aliens!"

"Yeah, aliens didn't eat your candy, Fez," Hyde said. "Your chick did." His patience was disintegrating, but he forced his voice to remain even. "But I don't got a chick, so where the hell are my keys?"

Donna's face paled. She was sitting in Fez's usual spot and clutched the arms of the lawn chair. Paul Lynde had just made a corny joke. It epitomized what Hyde despised about The Hollywood Squares, but she usually enjoyed that kitsch. "Hyde," she said when the TV audience quit laughing, "where did you park your car?"

"Where I usually do, back of the house."

"Go see if it's still there."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Just—oh, God." She pushed herself off the chair, but Hyde got to the basement door first. He yanked it open and charged up the stone staircase. "Hyde, wait!" she yelled after him, but slowing down wasn't an option.

His palms smashed into the backyard fence gate. It swung open, and he bolted across the grass, but the space through the trees was empty. The shining, black hood of his Camino should have filled the gaps.

Pressure built in his chest as he unlocked the fence's back gate. He raced from one end of the street to the other. No cars were in sight, and his breath exploded in rib-rattling scream.

"Hyde?" Donna said behind him.

"My baby!" he shouted. "Someone stole my baby!"

A hand clasped his shoulder, and Hyde whipped around. Fez had followed him, along with the rest of their friends, and stared at Hyde with tearful eyes. "Rhonda might have my heart, but I'm still your baby."

"No, man, the Camino! Who stole my car?"

Donna stepped forward. "I … might know."

"Your moron boyfriend?" Hyde said. "Casey got bored with the Trans-Am, so he figured he'd take a Camino out for a spin?"

"No," she said, fists clenched. "Kelso's little felon of a girlfriend. She's been on a thieving kick."

Forman laughed. "Come on."

"Yeah, Donna," Kelso said. "Jackie's not a felon. She might be tiny, but she's all woman."

"Not fellow, you dink." She smacked Kelso's arm. "Felon. Yeah, she stole your brother's clock radio last week, and where do you think she got that wedge of Gouda the other day? Stole it from her job. And this morning she tried to take my stereo! I caught her before she could unplug the wires, but who knows what else she's stolen?"

"I do," Hyde said. "My car."

He paced the street, but he had to come up with a plan. Speeding thoughts kicked up smoke in his skull. Ideas were competing in a drag race, and one hit the finish line first. "Time to teach that chick a lesson," he said aloud. "She can't go sneakin' into people's rooms and swiping their stuff. If she's gonna steal, she needs to do it from the mall like the rest of us."

His muscles tensed. His friends' stares were on him, and he quit pacing. Silently, they seemed to be asking the same question. He answered with a shrug. A guy had to get his spray paint from somewhere.

The walk to Jackie's neighborhood usually took twenty-five minutes. Hyde got there in under twenty. Revenge was his gasoline, but his friends had insisted on coming with him. They'd matched his speed, even when he broke into a run, and they caught their breath down the road from his destination.

The Burkhart Mansion.

It rose above the surrounding houses like a hill fort, situated on an elevated tract of land, but it didn't have the defenses of a castle. In fact, the property had no security at all except for a short, spiked steel gate. A family that rich should've at least had a guard dog.

Hyde jumped the gate, not for the first time, and landed on the gravel driveway. His friends' shoes crunched the gravel moments later, and Fez slipped. "Amateurs," Hyde muttered. He was here to case the joint, not play babysitter, but he helped Fez to his feet.

"Hate to break it to ya, buddy," Kelso said, pointing toward the house, "but your car's not here."

The Camino wasn't in view, but that meant nothing. Jackie could've hid it in the garage, but the driveway had obvious tire tracks. "Hate to break it to ya, man," Hyde said and thumped Kelso's back, "but you're an idiot."

Kelso flinched, and his eyes revealed a total lack of understanding. "Huh?"

Hyde wasted no time elaborating. He followed the tire tracks to the Burkharts' expansive, landscaped backyard. His car was parked on the grass, sunlight glinting off the hood, as if it had been waiting for him.

"Well, what do you know?" Forman said. "Jackie is a little felon."

"Told you," Donna said, but Hyde dashed to the Camino and checked it over. The bumpers were intact, and the paint hadn't been scratched. The chassis wasn't dented, but how did the car run? Jackie's crappy driving might've wrecked its insides. She'd done major damage to Kelso's first van by not paying attention, and that was with an automatic transmission. The Camino had a stick shift. Using it properly was an art, requiring a know-how and practice she didn't have.

He tried opening the driver-side door, but it was locked,. He peered up at the house. Breaking in couldn't be that hard. "I gotta swipe my keys back—and take somethin' of Jackie's as payback."

"Ooh, like her virginity?" Fez said.

Kelso chuckled. "I already did that."

"Barely." Hyde rammed his fist into Fez's shoulder. "And, you—don't joke about stealing anyone's virginity, man. That ain't somethin' up for grabs."

Fez rubbed his arm and frowned. "Mine is. I've been begging Rhonda to steal it for months."

Hyde ran his hand over the Camino's hood. It was smooth, warm to the touch, and soothed his agitated mind. He'd taken Fez's statement too seriously, but with Fez one could never tell. The more Big Rhonda denied him, the worse his attitude became.

"Hey," Donna said, drawing Hyde's attention, "you should join me at one of my feminist rallies."

"Oh, you still go to those?" Forman said. "I thought Casey had Trans-Ammed the feminism out of you."

She moved toward him, biceps flexing beneath her tight sleeves. "Would you get off that already? Just because I like my boyfriend's car doesn't mean I'm a bimbo."

"Well, you never acted all..." Forman wiggled his fingers in the air, and his voice rose to a feminine pitch, "'Oh, my God, Vista Cruisers kick ass!' around my car."

"Because it's a freakin' 1969 Oldsmobile station wagon—"

"Okay, enough!" Hyde wedged himself between her and Forman. "We get it. You two got divorced and wanna bicker, but you're screwing my concentration." He waved toward the driveway gate. "All of you scram and let me do what I came here to do."

They did as he said, though not quietly. Kelso and Fez pelted gravel at each other while Forman and Donna argued. But silence came eventually, and Hyde studied the house's second-floor windows. The pair with the pink curtains had to be Jackie's. They had no bars, and opening one would probably be the easy part.

But he had to get up to it first.

Hyde returned to the Burkhart Mansion around one a.m. He'd hauled Red's extension ladder across town and, except for muscle fatigue, had no problems. Folks in Point Place didn't tend to wander the streets late at night. That was good. Their penchant for staying home had kept this caper from becoming a Three Stooges routine.

The ladder went over the Burkhart's driveway gate with a clank. He winced at the volume, but the house windows didn't light up. With any luck, Jackie's family would snore through his trespass. The weather was already on his side. Though cold, the night wasn't windy or wet. Two less factors he had to worry about.

Stone pedestals, glowing with soft light, lined the driveway. He followed them to the backyard and held in a laugh. The Camino was parked where he'd last seen it, proof of Jackie's amateurism. She should have moved it into the garage, but her Burkhart arrogance had left him a getaway car.

He swung his backpack off one shoulder. His flashlight was inside, but the stone pedestals lit the house. Convenient. It meant maneuvering the ladder wouldn't be a problem. His flashlight could remain where it was, giving him the use of both hands.

He laid the ladder against the house and glanced up. Jackie's bedroom windows were dark. They had to be twenty-feet up from the ground, and adrenaline shot into his arms. He'd never sneaked into a window so high before, but lectures from Red about ladder safety banged around his skull. He always listened to them when cleaning the Formans' gutters, and he did the same now.

With the ladder positioned, secured, and extended to its full height, he started to climb. The effort shouldn't have affected him, but his heart pounded at each step. If he couldn't get Jackie's window open, he was done. Worse, if he used too much force, he could alter the ladder's angle and plummet to his death.

Mortality 101. Today's lesson: leaving his corpse under Jackie's window.

His palms grew sweaty with the thought, so he quit thinking. Staying calm was essential to this caper, and a few rungs below his target, he allowed himself three deep breaths. The plan. He had to stick with the plan. His denim jacket contained several burgling supplies—a Phillips head screwdriver, for one—but Jackie's window was already open. Just a few inches, but it was enough.

Her underestimation of him was amusing. She might as well have put up a flashing, neon sign saying, "Hyde, please break in!"

The window opened wide with two shoves. He climbed one more rung, grabbed ahold of the sill, and pulled himself into the room. Jackie's curtains scraped against his hair. The sensation prickled his skin, and he landed on a hard pile that collapsed beneath him. Books. Who the hell left books by a window?

Jackie uttered a soft, wordless sound. Her bed was too close for comfort, but his graceless landing hadn't woken her. Her body was a shadowy lump. It rose and fell with her breath, but it could just as easily detonate with a scream.

He had to move and fast. He stayed low to the floor and crawled to her desk. It was on the other side of the room, a decent distance from her, but he didn't stand at his full height. The less of a presence he was, the better. He kept his flashlight in his backpack for the same reason. Instead, he chose Mrs. Forman's medical penlight, the one she used to check sore throats. He pressed the button at the top, emitting a thin but bright beam.

Makeup, perfume, a hand mirror—these took up most of the desk's real estate, but his keys had to be some place visible. Jackie was the kind of person who enjoyed her victories. She wouldn't hide her trophies. Those books by the window were probably some of her scores.

He aimed the penlight at her double dresser but discovered only a stereo and a lava lamp. Her single dresser was a cluttered mess, covered by a small TV set, a bunch of records, and a few magazines. Had she put his keys on her own key chain? Was she that nuts? He went back to the desk and opened its two drawers. They were filled with paper, sheets of stickers, and pens. He rifled around in them and pain pierced his middle finger.

His teeth clenched, holding in his shout. The room was freakin' booby-trapped. He shone the penlight on his finger. A thick splinter was lodged in his skin, and he yanked it out. Ransacking her closet would likely blind him. It had to be rigged with sharp-heeled shoes to stab prying eyes.

He finished searching her desk, but unless it had secret compartments, his keys were elsewhere ... anywhere. Jackie's room had too many hiding spots, and her rhythmic breathing acted like a countdown clock. The longer he stayed, the more of a chance he'd be caught. Explaining himself to her parents wouldn't work. His evidence, the car parked in their backyard, was also Jackie's. She just had to twist the story around and say he'd driven the Camino here himself.

Ending this caper would be the right call. The smart call, but searching her dressers was worth the risk. He turned toward the bigger one, and a hint of silver glinted at him. The penlight beam had caught the bedroom door. Specifically, the coat rack nailed to it, comprised of wooden letters spelling out Jackie's name. Each letter had a metal hook, and dangling from the J was a key chain.

His key chain.

It was mounted on the wall like an animal trophy. He'd been right about her, but how? Why did he get her so well? He didn't want to get her, but he did. It soured his stomach. It was a problem, but fixing it had to wait.

He snatched his keys and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. All he had to do now was grab something of hers and leave. Nothing he'd seen so far had left an impression. Taking her promise ring from Kelso would be the most commensurate punishment, but he couldn't touch her. She'd wake up and attack him. Maybe accuse him of trying to do more than steal her ring.

Her body was off-limits, but her closet wasn't. It held some of her most prized possessions: her clothes. Stabbing shoes aside, that was where he had to go.

He took slow, quiet steps toward his prey, but the toe of his boot caught on a soft object. Kicking it aside would cause trouble, so he picked it up. The material was soft and squishy. A pillow? But it had a strange shape. Bumpy, like gear.

Jackie's sheets swished. She uttered another wordless noise, and it propelled him forward. He dropped the pillow but tripped on another. His center of gravity shifted. He couldn't recover, and his body slammed into the floor.

"Huh?" Jackie said, sounding barely awake.

The impact of his fall buzzed through his skin. He remained flat on the carpet but said, "Congrats, Jackie. You've, uh … won Point Place's Prettiest Princess contest."

"I have?"

"Yup." He reached blindly for the penlight. It hadn't flown far, unlike time. Jackie was going to wake completely if her ego didn't buy what he was selling. "You beat out Julie Halverson, Pam Macy, and Kat Peterson."

"I did?"

"Yeah, man. You're..." Damn it. Complimenting her was like cutting off his 'nads, but he had to lull her to dreamland."You're totally hot. Big brown eyes, adorable as hell nose, and, uh … super hair?"

She expelled a breath. "What about my mouth?"

Crap. What he actually thought of her mouth would wake her for sure, and his fist closed around the penlight. "Your mouth's as beautiful as it is loud."

"Thank you, Steven."

"No problem," he said and cringed. The game was over. He'd played it wrong, but she sighed, and her sheets swished again. Was he in the free and clear? Had she fallen back asleep?

He sat up and put his backpack on his lap. The closet was a no-go, but her two weirdly-shaped pillows lay by his feet. They'd have to do, and he crammed them into his backpack.

Jackie didn't react as he crawled to the open window. Escape was inches away, but he had to be be thorough Only a sloppy burglar left evidence, and he restacked the books he'd knocked over earlier.

His fingers gripped the window sill. He stuck his head into the chilly night air, but getting from the window to the ladder without a spotter wasn't going to happen. Too much of a gap existed between the sill and the rungs. He was liable to kick the fucking ladder out from under him.

Only one option was left: leaving the house like an invited guest. He shut the window but not completely. Those few inches would help conceal his entry. He crept to the bedroom door as sweat soaked his shirt. Jackie could catch him any moment, but she only breathed.

The second-foor hallway was pitch black. He turned on the penlight, and it lit a path to the staircase. The steps were carpeted, but they creaked as he descended. Was the house trying to rat him out? That would account for the Burkharts' lack of security measures: the house itself was alive.

He smacked the center of his forehead. Who was he, Kelso? The house wasn't alive or out to get him, but he did have to get out of it. His intrusion would land him in jail if Jackie's parents woke.

He reached the first floor and took a right at the ticking grandfather clock. His gaze was fixed on the French doors. They were glowing subtly, drawing him toward freedom. The stone pedestals outside had to be responsible. Silently, he thanked his inanimate accomplices—and collided with a large piece of furniture.

His yelp mixed with a cacophony of notes. Jackie and her parents would definitely wake after that ruckus. The furniture was their grand piano. Its fallboard had been left open, and he revised his earlier thought: the house was out to get him.

He bolted for the French doors, unlatched the lock, and didn't quit moving once he was in the backyard. His chest burned as he retracted the ladder to its shortest length. His breathing was off, his mind was off, but he dumped the ladder into the Camino's flatbed without any trouble.

His key slid satisfyingly into the car door. He could've skipped the cat-burglar act, picked the lock and hot-wired the ignition, but his baby deserved better. He sat behind the wheel and turned on the engine. The Camino's healthy growl lifted his lips into a smile, but envisioning his escape stole all joy.

The driveway gate was padlocked.

He leaned his head back and groaned. Here he was, calling Jackie an amateur when he wasn't much better. Any second, the shriek and flash of police sirens would herald his fate. Prison. It sat at number two on his roster of possible futures. Number one was pumping gas, and number three was premature death. Each a Zonk, as if his life were a chumps-only version of Let's Make a Deal.

The cold, constricting memory of handcuffs surfaced in his wrists. He'd been to jail before, thanks to Jackie. She caused him trouble more often than not, but if his life were a game show, what was her part in it? The model who presented the prize curtains?

He shifted the Camino into first gear, and gravel crunched beneath the tires as he drove. Curtain number two was still avoidable. He didn't have to go to prison if he worked fast.

He parked a distance from the driveway gate. The Camino's headlights shone on it, and he got out of the car, clutching his lock-picking tools. But the padlock was open. The shackle was hooked through the gate's latch uselessly, like someone had forgotten it. Weird, just like this whole night. The Burkharts' security sucked to begin with, but what they did have wasn't being utilized.

He slipped the padlock from the latch and opened the gate wide. Were Jackie's folks even home? He didn't know enough about her life to make an educated guess, but their absence would explain the ease of his getaway.

He drove the Camino off the Burkharts' property and parked on the street. No cops were in sight. If he drove away now, curtain number two wouldn't open, but he walked back to the gate. He locked it with the padlock and shook his head at his compulsion—and the irony. What kind if burglar secured a house after he'd broken into it?