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

CHAPTER TWO
THE MAZE

Jackie sat on the edge of her bed, arms covered in gooseflesh. The morning sun had turned her room gold, but her mind was lead. Last night's nightmare had infested her body. She'd won Point Place's Prettiest Princess contest, and first prize was to make love to Steven Hyde.

Making love to Steven.

What kind of prize was that? She rubbed her arms to stop the prickling, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. She was smiling at the memory of Steven's voice, of his lips on her neck, of his presence between her legs.

Insane, that was what she'd become. She'd gone crazy from withholding sex from Michael. It was her revenge on him for a list of growing offenses: his dreams about Donna, his modeling career, his hypocrisy about her kissing another boy. Her vengeance fit his crimes, but depriving him was punishing her, too.

She missed the excitement of making love. Stealing, though, gave her an equal rush. It was a good substitute for sex, and taking Steven's car yesterday had lit her up like nothing else.

Except her nightmare about him.

Blood heated her neck. She rubbed her arms harder, but the gooseflesh remained. Dreaming about Steven wasn't acceptable. Boys on TV or in movies, okay. They were famous, weren't friends with Michael, and probably wouldn't get the chance to kiss her in real life. But Steven … he'd kissed her last year, waking nerve endings she never knew she had. It was a frightening experience, one her heart still hadn't processed.

She bent toward the floor and reached for her flower pillows. Her mom had bought the pair two years ago as an I-love-you gift. Jackie adored them. They comforted her during her parents' absence or when Michael was being a jerk. She needed their comfort now, but her fingers clutched at carpet.

The pillows weren't where she remembered dropping them. She scanned the floor, but they weren't by the bathroom door or her desk. They weren't anywhere at all, unless her toss had gone so far astray that they'd hit the windows.

She searched behind her curtains but found no pillows. Lying beneath the window sills, however, was her plunder from the library: a stack of books. It served as an elegant monument to her thievery, but the elegance was gone. The books were no longer piled from largest to smallest but haphazardly, as if someone had restacked them.

Her breath halted at the thought, and she examined the windows. The right-most pane wasn't open enough. She always used a scratch on the frame as a marker. Opening the window to that spot let in air without freezing the room, but the pane was a half-inch below it.

Someone had broken into her room.

Her lungs finally took in air, and she screamed. Dashed into the hallway and screamed. Banged on her parents' door and screamed. Her mom's groggy face appeared, and she continued to scream.

"Jackie—Jackie, your father's asleep!" Her mom shut the door behind her. "Calm down and tell me what's wrong."

"A-a-a burglar!" Jackie managed to say.

"There was a break-in?" Her mom vanished into her room and reappeared wearing a fluffy bathrobe. "Where? How do you know?"

Jackie grasped her mom's wrist and dragged her across the hallway. They were beside Jackie's bed moments later. "See?" Jackie said, waving at the floor. "My flower pillows are missing! And those books over there? They've been disturbed, and the window—"

"Honey, are you sure you didn't just misplace the pillows?"

"No! Someone took them."

Her mom glanced around the room. "But your hi-fi and TV are still here." She exhaled a long breath, and her posture drooped, as if tension had been propping her up. "Sweetheart, this is the safest neighborhood in town. We don't have thieves. We have pool boys—and why would a burglar steal pillows?"

"For the thrill."

"What?"

Jackie didn't repeat herself, but her mom had a point. Why would someone sneak into her room just to take pillows? "My clothes!" she shouted and rushed to her closet.

She began a thorough inspection but stopped at her dad's voice. "What's all the commotion about?" he said by her desk. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his silk robe. That move was sure to leave a stain, but neither Jackie nor her mom mentioned it. "Did you have a nightmare, kitten?"

"Yes," she said, "but that's not—"

"Well!" Her mom clapped her hands once and smiled. "That's explains things. Jack..." she eased her arm around his back, "let's go have some breakfast, shall we? And maybe open the safe."

"Open the safe?" he said.

"Just a precaution." She ushered him into the hallway, and their voices faded.

Jackie shoved aside one of her coats. Her closet was thick with clothing, and nothing seemed to be missing, but just once couldn't her parents take her seriously? Unless she was talking about grades or boys, money or popularity, they never listened.

Their lack of attention, however, didn't change facts. A thief had been in her room last night, but why? He hadn't ravaged her closet, and an investigation of her dressers brought no new evidence. Her desk, though, presented a clue. The drawers were a disorganized mess. The thief's hands had definitely been inside them, but her diary was in its proper place. Her pens and sheets of unicorn stickers were all accounted for, too.

She returned to the windows and opened one wide. The cool, morning air saturated her lungs, but it left her in another scream.

Steven's car was gone. Her greatest trophy. It should've been parked below, but only grass met her eyes.

She stumbled to the bedroom door. Her JACKIE coat rack was still nailed to it, but icy fingers seized her heart. The thief had stolen Steven's keys right off the J. He'd skulked around her room while she slept. A stranger.

Shivers crawled up her back and made her lips tremble. Who would do such a thing, rob her in the middle of the night? She'd taken Steven's car without any witnesses—hadn't she?

Maybe someone had watched from the Formans' bushes, intending to steal the El Camino for himself, only Jackie had stolen it first. He'd followed her home and waited until she was asleep. Then he climbed in through her window, grabbed Steven's keys, and used her flower pillows during his getaway.

Or he was a sicko. The pillows were his quarry, and the El Camino was an unexpected convenience.

Blood throbbed in her fingertips and behind her eyes. Her thrill-seeking had led to this trouble. Hurting Michael was one thing. He'd earned it, but she'd never meant to hurt Steven. His car was lost forever.

She slammed her palms against the window sill. Not forever. She was a Burkhart, and Burkharts had money and resources. That skeevy, pillow-loving thief wouldn't get away with his crimes.

The dining room smelled like coffee and bacon. The aroma rumbled Jackie's stomach, but she was too distracted to eat. Her parents sat together at the marble-topped table, but they acted as if they were in separate rooms. Her mom flipped the pages of a tabloid magazine, and a newspaper obscured her dad's face as Martina, the housekeeper, served breakfast.

"Good morning, Miss Jackie," Martina said and put a plate of eggs Benedict at Jackie's usual seat.

"Morning." Jackie's mouth watered. The hollandaise-smothered eggs were tempting, but she stuck to her agenda. She clanked her fork on the plate, hoping to get her dad's attention. "We have to report a stolen car."

Her dad lowered the newspaper. "The Lincoln?"

"No—" She tried to give a more detailed answer, but his eyes went wide behind his glasses.

"Not the Maserati," he said, and the paper crinkled in his hands. "Jackie, your cheating, doofus boyfriend is never to touch my Maserati! Why did you—"

"I didn't!" She gripped the edge of the table. "And Michael isn't a cheater anymore, Daddy, so stop calling him that."

Her mom finally looked up from her magazine. "Jack, no one stole the cars. Our daughter just wants some attention." Her gaze moved to Jackie with apparent concern, but exasperation soaked her voice. "What can we do for you, sweetheart? Is Michael still acting weird because you kissed that boy from work? Is that what your nightmare was about?"

Jackie's grip on the table tightened. "No. It's—oh, never mind!"

She fled the house and ran to Donna's neighborhood. She could've taken the Lincoln or the bus, but too much energy quaked in her body. It needed to be expended. Sweat dampened her skin and flattened her hair, but it was a small price to pay. Instead of sobbing, she could form complete sentences by the time she reached the Pinciottis' kitchen.

"Where's Donna?" she said. Bob and his girlfriend, Joanne, were eating breakfast at the table. "I need to talk to her. Now."

"Well, good morning to you, too," Joanne said, but her cranky attitude wasn't unexpected. She was dating Bob, after all.

Jackie could've offered some advice, like dump Bob or—no. Dump Bob was all she had, but she sped into the living room, where Donna was watching TV. The couch seemed to dwarf her—a feat, considering Donna's height— and a giant glass bowl of cereal sat on her lap.

"Donna," Jackie shouted, "someone stole Steven's car!"

"Yeah, I know," Donna said and scooped cereal into her mouth. "You."

"No, I—wait." Jackie sat on the couch and patted Donna's knee frantically. Milk sloshed out of Donna's bowl, but Jackie said, "How do you know I took it? How do you know that?"

Donna slapped Jackie's hand away. "Watch it, you little freak! You're getting cereal everywhere."

"Your couch is a hideous powder blue, Donna. A little cereal won't make it uglier."

"Whatever. We saw Hyde's car parked at your house."

Jackie's eyebrows rose. The morning was getting weirder and weirder. "We?"

"Yeah. Me, Eric, Kelso, Fez, and Hyde."

"Steven knows I—" Jackie voice caught. She coughed to clear it, but her heart hammered in her chest. "That doesn't matter now. The car's been stolen from me. A thief snuck into my room last night, and—what am I going to do?" Her breathing shallowed, turning the living room into an aqua-silver blur. "Steven's gonna kill me! He loves that car."

Donna didn't answer. She shoveled cereal into her mouth, and the spoon clinked against the glass bowl.

Jackie hit Donna's knee again. "Don't just sit there eating, you goon! If you'd stolen Eric's car to get revenge on him for the break-up, and someone stole the car from you—though why anyone would steal that clunker is beyond me—I'd help you."

"Fine," Donna said with a groan. "Wait here." She put the bowl on the coffee table and stood. "I have an uncle who's a cop."

"Doesn't he live in New Jersey?"

"Yes, but he could still help. I have to get the number from my dad." She went to the bar by the window and returned with a pad of paper and pencil. "Write down everything you can remember about Hyde's car—where you parked it, left the keys; that kind of stuff. I'll be back in a minute."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Jackie got to writing, sparing no detail. The more information she put down, the more Donna's uncle would believe it—unlike Jackie's parents. They were useless, especially since they stopped providing her with money. Dating Michael again had more consequences than she'd anticipated, but at least she had a true friend.

At least she had Donna.

Hyde locked the door to his room, giving him and Donna privacy. She had news, and he couldn't wait to hear it. "So," he said, "what'd Jackie say?"

She sat on the dusty ottoman close to his cot. Her fingers drummed on her knees, and her lips twitched into a smile. "She's completely freaked that the Camino was 'stolen' from her—and creeped out a thief picked through her room while she slept."

He smirked, despite the guilt slithering in his stomach. "All right. What about the pillows?"

"The what?"

He turned over the blanket on his cot, revealing Jackie's flower-shaped pillows. The pair was green and pink, a vestige of the '60s. Leo would probably dig them, but they didn't fit the gray of Hyde's room.

Donna laughed. "You took her pillows? Out of everything she owns, that's what you grabbed?"

"I had no time, man. She was only half-asleep."

"Well, I don't think she's noticed their disappearance. She's too preoccupied with your car."

"Crap." He put his blanket back over the pillows. Swiping them had been pointless. "Camino's in the garage. Once Jackie's outta the neighborhood, I'm gonna stash it at Leo's where she won't find it. Let her sweat a little."

Donna nodded. "Good idea, but I better go." She pushed herself off the ottoman and headed for the door. "She thinks I came over here to call my uncle about the car. You know, the one from Jersey? Anyway, I told her I'd use the Formans' phone so Eric's parents would be charged with the long-distance bill—"

"And blame Forman for the expense." He got the angle. Jackie loved burns on Forman, and it made Donna's story's believable. "Pinciotti," he punched her shoulder affectionately, "you've got a future in this business."

"And what business is that?"

He grinned. "The lying-to-Jackie business. It's an expanding enterprise, man. I'm in it. Kelso and Forman are in it. Welcome to the family."

"Shut up." She unlocked his door. "I'm only doing this to keep her out of trouble. The way she's going, she'll end up in jail for shoplifting—or grand larceny."

She left him, and he relocked the door, imagining Jackie in a prison cell. Her future wasn't supposed to go that route. That was his road, and he grabbed one of her pillows, as if it would tell him her secrets. A month ago, she'd kissed a guy who wasn't her boyfriend and now she was stealing cars. But people didn't become cheaters or thieves because they were happy. Those were the acts of someone in trouble. Of someone who felt trapped, like him.

He dropped her pillow, but that didn't kill his concern. His own life was a maze, possibly one with no exit. Going left, going right—it didn't matter. Whichever way he went, Jackie was a part of the map.