Release it.
Move.
This one is tighter, and I have to inch my way through, holding my breath at every rustle, every branch, every crackle of a leaf.
But then I’m through.
And my quarry is just ahead, the French doors of the office dark, hiding the interior of a space I know is filled with leather that is a deep brown and butter soft. Hiding a huge glass and mahogany desk, the gleaming surface always somehow completely free of fingerprints.
Even though he isn’t one of those men who pretends to work.
Heworks.
Hard.
That’s never in doubt.
Only, the man has to sleep sometime.
Hence why it’s two o’clock in the morning and I’m making my approach.
He’ll be in bed and?—
I glance at my watch, realize I’ve nearly missed the next interval and burst forward out of the shadows of the hedges, sprinting for the huge potted palms that adorn either side of the entrance.
Not approaching the door—that will be watched on the cameras.
But instead, I move toward the trio of windows on one shadowed wall.
Ivy crawls up the old wooden cases, the glass clear enough that I can see inside, see the shadows of furniture, of the desk.
I left prints on his big, glass-topped desk—from my fingers, my palms, my…ass.
Prints that were cleaned off within the hour.
As though I hadn’t existed. As if what I experienced hadn’t happened.
A familiar feeling.
Pushing that aside, I tug my picks from my pocket, studying the metal latches. There are sensors on the windows, but I know that the one on the right swells during the summer, the humidity wreaking havoc with the old wood.
The sensor is there, but the contact plate was removed.
Thatis my way in.
I eye the lock near the latch then select the correct pick from my set, pull out my tension wrench.
Ten seconds later, the pins in the lock have been shifted, the latch opened, and I’m sliding open the heavy sash. I haul myself in, stash away my tools, and close the window almost all the way.
My muscles are screaming from having to drag myself through the opening and my heart pounds, bile rising in my throat. Not from the exertion.
But from being here…in this room, in this place.
It’s just another scene in the nightmare that became my life.
But I don’t have time for this—for a mental breakdown, for a trip down memory lane. I need to get what I came for, and then I need to get the hell out, and not look back.
Neverlook back.
