“I got them,” Hazel said, slamming her apartment door shut behind her.
I gripped her shoulders and shook.
“What!” she yelped, clearly not expecting that.
“There!” I pointed to the sign under the camera.
“The camera?” she asked, looking at me like I’d lost it. “We’ve already been over this?—”
“Not the camera.Thesign.” My grin was huge. “I actually think we might be able to figure this out.”
TWENTY-SIX
Hazel
From:[email protected]
Hello,
A tenant had an issue with theft and has filed a police report. We need the footage from Thursday, October 24, from between seven and eight AM. The camera’s serial number is 2754689.
Sincerely,
Courtyard Apartments Leasing Office
From:[email protected]
A ticket has been opened regarding this request. We store camera footage in our cloud for sixty days. Please allow up to seven days to process this request.
This is an automated reply. Please do not respond.
As soon asReid mentioned the footage might be stored in the cloud, I’d jumped at the chanceto send an email. It had been his idea to create a fake account posing as the apartment complex’s leasing office. With only a week until my winnings were supposed to be deposited, time was running out—and the last thing we wanted was to deal with the real leasing office.
The camera facing the courtyard had a small ID number printed at the bottom. That, paired with the phony email, seemed to be all it took to bypass whatever basic security the ticketing system had in place.
I was jittery with renewed hope. The chance that we might have answers soon had gone from improbable to likely. It was hard not to be too optimistic when this could be the smoking gun we needed. They still had the footage. It wasn’t gone. They said they were processing the request. I’d be able to see with my own eyes exactly who took Vermont. I’d have definitive proof. I could take action.
The ordeal had me both on the edge of my seat with impatience, and more content than I’d been in a while.
“Earth to Hazel.” Jackson waved a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry?” I blinked, giving him my attention. “Did you say something?”
“I asked when your next client is.”
“Oh, I’m done for the day. Just procrastinating leaving with that awful-looking weather outside.”
It was a classic late-fall evening—gray and frigid, with the wind swirling around thick snowflakes that refused to stick, melting instead on contact with pavement still warm thanks to the steady stream of passing cars.
The salon had been buzzing all day. We were fully booked, nonstop from open to close. Natalie and Ruby were still with clients up front and Miranda was manning the desk, deep in conversation on the phone. The hours had flown by in the best kind of way. Everyone was getting their hair done for the holidays—family photos, office parties, winter weddings. There was something magical about it all.
“Want to grab a drink?” Jackson asked.
“Maybe tomorrow?” I offered.
