Ghost shows me the lock at the service entrance. “Here it is.”
I trace the frame of the keypad where sun exposure has warped the plastic housing. The three, five, seven, and nine buttons show visible wear, their surfaces dulled compared to the pristine finish of the other digits.
“This needs replacing.” I tap the keypad with my knuckle. “Since this model uses a four-digit entry code, any halfway competent thief would narrow their attempts to combinations of these four numbers, reducing thousands of possibilities to only twenty-four.”
Ghost stands beside me, tracking my movement.
I move to the hinge of the door, crouching to inspect the metal. “This is rusted through. Listen.” I pull the door open, and a high-pitched squeal cuts through the quiet hallway. “That sound carries. Anyone approaching from outside would hear you coming from thirty feet away.”
“We oil it weekly,” Ghost says.
“Oil is a temporary fix.” I run my finger along the corroded metal, rust flaking under my touch. “The metal itself is compromised. It needs a completereplacement.”
My body settles into the familiar rhythm of assessment, muscles relaxing as I slide into professional mode. This, at least, I understand. This, I’m good at.
I continue my circuit of the back area, noting each flaw with growing concern. A security camera angled too high, creating a blind spot wide enough for a person to slip through. A fire exit with a sticky latch, requiring extra force to open. A supply closet with a standard lock, easy to pick in under thirty seconds.
“Your entire northeast corner has no coverage.” I gesture toward the ceiling where two corridors meet. “Anyone who makes it past the front could move freely through this section.”
“How would you fix it?”
“The hinges need full replacement with marine-grade stainless steel.” My hands sketch shapes in the air as I explain. “The keypad should be a model with a randomized display that changes digit positions each use, so wear patterns don’t give away the code. Add two cameras in the corner, overlapping fields to eliminate the blind spot.”
Ghost’s head tilts. “What about the fire exit?”
“Replace the push bar mechanism. The current one is at least ten years old, judging by the wearpattern. Newer models have smoother action and better panic functions.” The words flow with ease, my hands moving with them. “You could add an alarm that triggers only at the security desk rather than a full siren, so you know if it’s been used.”
“What else?” Ghost asks.
I lead them through each area, pointing out vulnerabilities and offering solutions without hesitation. For the first time since losing my diner job, satisfaction fills me at being useful, providing knowledge they don’t have.
My shoulders straighten, chin lifting as I explain the difference between mechanical and digital fail-safes, the proper placement of motion sensors, and the advantages of progressive security zones.
“The supply room lock is a joke.” I tap the doorknob with my knuckle. “This five-pin tumbler is sold at any hardware store. I could open it with a paper clip and a tension wrench.”
Ghost’s eyebrows lift. “Show me.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth as I pull out my wallet and extract a credit card and a small metal tool disguised as a key fob. Never leave home without the basics.
Thirty seconds later, the door swings open.
“Jesus,” Ghost mutters.
“If this were my job, I’d install a biometric reader for sensitive areas.” I close the door, running my hand along the frame. “Fingerprint, not facial recognition. Facial can be fooled with photos.”
Ghost frowns. “What’s your assessment of our overall security?”
“Decent front-of-house security to keep casual threats out. Mediocre back-of-house that won’t stop anyone determined. What you have might have worked when this place was first built, but it’s all out of date now.” I meet his stare. “You’ve focused on keeping people in their proper zones but not on protecting what happens inside those zones.”
Instead of defensiveness, Ghost says, “That matches my concerns.”
A validating warmth rushes through me.
We return to where Rowan waits with Saint, his long frame relaxed in a leather chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.
“Your locksmith is good,” Ghost tells him. “He found flaws we’ve overlooked for years.”
“Of course he’s good.” Rowan’s eyes find mine, pride and possession mingling in his stare. “That’s why I brought him.”
