But instead, I move toward the trio of windows on one shadowed wall.
Ivy crawls up the old wooden frames, the glass clear enough that I can see inside, see the shadows of the leather furniture, of the…desk.
Ileft prints there—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 and study the metal latches. There are sensors on the windows, but I know the one on the right swells during the summer, the heat wreaking havoc with the old wood.
The sensor is there, but the contact plate was removed long ago.
That’smy 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. Then I need to get the hell out and not look back.
Neverlook back.
Blowing out a silent breath, I take stock of the office.
It’s exactly the same, with the exception of the books on the shelves lining the far wall.
My breath catches, pulse speeding further.
He doesn’t read—hasn’t since the moment he got his degree. He had to force himself through too many dry tomes during his college years to ever find joy in it again…or at least, that’s what he always told me.
So seeing those shelves filled with books instead of refined masculine decor is such a dramatic change that I actually take a step in that direction, wanting to discover what the titles are.
Until I remember myself.
Focus.
Deliberately turning away, I shift behind the desk, ignoring the hint of his cologne—thathasn’t changed. The scent settles heavy on my senses as I feel for the hidden latch.
It’s been a long time and I only saw him do it a handful of times, so it isn’t easy?—
Click.
The painting behind the desk slides to the side, exposing a steel safe, the black handle basically just shadows in the darkness of the office. But next to it is a silver keypad, the gleam of LEDs nearly blinding.
Throat working, I rise on tiptoe, recall the series of numbers he didn’t bother to hide from me, and begin punching them in.
It’s been years.
It’s likely this won’t work, that all of this prep and waiting and sneaking will be for naught.
