Right. Without Craig, I have two options:
Go home, have a bath, and admit I’ve already gone further than any sane person should.
Break into James and Pete’s house.
I sigh and open the car door. Option two it is.
The street is unnervingly quiet. Daylight, but hushed, like the houses know something’s about to happen and they don’t want to get involved. Both cars are gone — James’s hulking black SUV andPete’s smaller, neater Audi. Hopefully they’re off somewhere long enough for me to play junior burglar. Hopefully Sam isn’t home either. Sam unsettles me in the way feral cats do: watchful, unpredictable, probably prone to scratching if cornered.
I cut through the side path, through overgrown bushes that make me feel like I’m in a low-budget spy film and appear by the back door, the route Pete told me wasn’t covered by the cameras.
The back door waits. I crouch and peer behind the plant pot. There it is. The spare key, just as James had said it would be for the cleaner a few days ago. I shouldn’t be pleased at how cliché this is, but honestly, if all crimes were this simple the prisons would need bunk beds.
I slide the key into the lock, heart hammering like I’ve swallowed a bass drum. The alarm pad blinks at me, smug and red.
I punch in the code. The same code I’ve seen Pete punch in before.
2020
The pad beeps, then goes blank. Relief washes over me. Step one: successful illegal entry.
Inside, the house is too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you hear your own body like it’s an instrument you never learned to play. My breath is too loud. My shoes creak. Even my heartbeat sounds suspicious.
I move through the kitchen first, trying to look casual, like maybe I just live here. I look through a few drawers, the kind of kitchen drawers where you chuck unwanted mail and knick knacks. Nothing incriminating. Shiny surfaces. A fruit bowl so polished the bananas look contractually obliged to stay bright yellow.
The dining room? Nothing except chairs that probably cost more than my car. The living room? Cushions aggressively plumped, magazines on the coffee table lined up like they’re auditioning for a catalogue. Nothing damning yet.
Okay. The office.
It’s tidy, of course, in that way that feels both sterile and threatening. A desk. Shelves. Files stacked neatly. And there it is: a sleek closed MacBook, gleaming like the crown jewels
I open it up. The login screen slides up, demanding a password like an offended maître d’. Of course it does, hardly a surprise.
But I had planned for this.
The bedroom is two doors down, and I step inside like I’m entering a museum I can’t afford. Bed made. Wardrobe shut. On the bedside table, an Apple Watch sits on its charging stand.
Bingo.
Pete doesn’t always wear it — he told me once it annoyed him when it buzzed with every email, so often he leaves it at home.
I lift it carefully. It comes to life, bright screen glowing, and prompts for a passcode.
Again, it’s a code I’ve seen Pete type in before.
2020.
The watch unlocks instantly. Relief makes me want to sit on the bed and cry. Instead, I strap it to my wrist, feel faintly ridiculous, and hurry back to the office.
I tap the Mac’s spacebar. The login screen pops up again. I raise my wrist. The watch buzzes. And like magic, the Mac unlocks.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “I’m a genius hacker.”
Thank you, Tim Cook.
No, I’m not. I’m a man in someone else’s house, breaking several laws simultaneously, but still — the thrill is real.
The desktop is ordinary enough at first: bland wallpaper, neat folders. But then I see an icon marked SecureTech.
