And with that thought, I drop from the window to the small roof beneath it, then slide off the awning and, with a long drop and a roll, land on the grass below.
I can worry about getting back inside later.
Right now, I have a girl to check on.
The rust bucket I broke into doesn’t belong in Trips’ neighborhood, but I find a safe home for it at a park not too far from his house. Unfortunately, the jog over has the still healing soles of my feet burning by the time I get to the walled edge of the Westerhouse estate.
I should turn back, but I’ve made it this far. I’m going to see Clara. If I’m lucky, maybe I can sneak into her room and hold her for the night. I’ll get in trouble with the facility, fuck, they might kick me out for not taking my treatment seriously, but this is an emergency.
Otherwise, none of this makes sense.
Scanning for cameras, I find a lone blind spot under a weeping willow. The tree is not meant to be climbed, but I make it high enough to fling myself over the wall, landing in a crouch, almost skewered by a maze of red roses that butt against the wall.
As I wind through the roses, the sun moves to kiss the horizon, bright orange light flashing off the lake in the distance, the colors and scents brutally vivid after the quiet calm of the facility. Staying in a crouch, scanning for cameras and guards, I double back a few times before I’m safely to the yard proper.
But then I realize I have no idea where to even begin looking for Clara.
This isn’t a house so much as a mansion with bonus mansions attached to it. And while I visited Trips over the Fourth of July a few years back, the scale of the place leaves me hunched under a bush, kicking myself for even coming out here.
Because even if I knew which room she’s been assigned, there’s no guarantee that she’ll be in it right now. What is guaranteed, however, is that her room will have a security camera. Which means showing up here is dumb.
Really, really dumb.
I’m hunched under the bush long enough that the sun fully sets, artful lights turning on automatically, one of them straight into my eyes. “Ouch,” I hiss, only to duck down lower, the sound of swiftly approaching boots having me hold my breath.
But, somehow, I’ve got luck on my side, because the swift rustle of combat boots sprints right past me. A second pair follows soon after, and because I’m part idiot and part curious cat, I follow, dodging from obstacle to obstacle, my ears trained on the growing commotion at the front of the house.
When I come around the side, I skirt the edge of what looks like a legit forest, so it’s nothing to climb up the tree closest to the house. Then I inch out on a big branch, finding a perfect seat for the action.
A whole hoard of guards are out front, whispering to each other and wandering from group to group. One guy laughs while another guy looks like he might piss himself. None of them seem interested in scanning the grounds for an intruder.
The front door opens, and I almost forget to breathe.
Clara, wearing slacks and a blouse like some charity gala coordinator, her hair pulled back into a braid, steps onto the veranda, her face stone-like.
Trips follows her, his hand on her waist, a similar look on his face. Only darker. More violent.
So, he knows about the fight she was in. And he’s not happy about it.
Shadowing the two of them is another guard, older, and the men in the courtyard quiet down when the older guy steps forward.
Last through the door is a struggling man, held back by two more guards as an SUV pulls up at the bottom of the steps. The man yells, but I’m not paying attention to him, rather the girl he’s screaming at.
Clara tilts her head, looking over at the yelling man beside her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “I was just defending myself.”
Trips leans down, pressing a kiss to her head, and follows the struggling man down the stairs.
Seeing her has me inching farther out on the branch, needing to be closer. And despite the risks, I leap off, landing on the roof with bare feet. Then I skitter along the overhang until I’m directly above her, figuring everyone is watching the man, not looking for somebody on the roof at night. Especially once the troublemaker breaks free from his handlers as he reaches the circle drive.
Lying flat on the edge, my hands gripping the gutters, I can barely see Clara’s head as she comes down a step, her attention on the man as he tackles one of the other guards.
I want her to look at me, to see me, but I don’t want to get shot by the veritable hoard of hostiles out here. Maybe when she goes back inside, I’ll be able to figure out which way she goes and slip inside to see her? My plan set, I scan the chaos that everyone else is watching.
And that’s all the warning I get.
A flash of silver as the formerly restrained man spins with purpose and training, taking a knee as a guard dives for him. Herolls, and comes back up, pointing the weapon at Clara, a grin across his face that makes me look perfectly sane.
I don’t think.
