"You can't promise that." She shakes her head, and a strand of hair falls loose from her bun. I watch it catch the dim light from the streetlamp below. "You can't just, you can't know what she'll do if she catches you in there."
"No," I admit, because lying to Maris has never felt right. "But I can try. I can be careful. I can make sure it works."
She stares at me. Doesn't let go of my arm. Her eyes are fierce and worried and beautiful all at once, the kind of look that makes something twist deep in my gut. I want to kiss her. Want to pull her close against me and promise that everything will work out, that I'll come back safe, that nothing bad will touch either of us tonight.
Instead, I settle for squeezing her hand where it rests on my forearm. Her fingers are warm even through the sleeve of my jacket.
"Stay here," I tell her quietly. "Keep watch from up top. If anything happens—if you see her coming back early, if the lights go on, anything—whistle for me."
"I can't whistle." She says it flat, matter-of-fact, and despite everything there's almost a smile trying to form at the corner of her mouth.
"Then yell."
"That defeats the entire purpose of being stealthy, Grath."
"Maris."
"Fine." She lets out a breath, sharp and frustrated. "I'll—I'll throw something. A pebble. At the window."
"Good enough." I nod once, then step back before I can lose my nerve.
I move before she can argue more. Before I can think too hard about what I'm doing. The fire escape groans under my weight but holds. I test each rung before committing. Down two floors. Across the narrow gap between buildings.
The window is old. The lock is older. I pull out the screwdriver I borrowed from the café's supply closet and work the latch.
It gives.
The window slides up with a quiet squeak that sounds deafening in the silence. I freeze. Wait. Listen.
Nothing.
I swing myself through. Land soft despite my size. The office smells like cheap perfume and printer ink. Janelle's desk is a mess of papers and coffee mugs and sticky notes.
The preliminary demolition plans are right on top of a stack of folders, edges curling slightly from age and handling. Like she wasn't even trying to hide them. Like she thought no one would dare come looking, or that she was untouchable enough not to need caution.
I grab them with both hands, fingers clumsy with adrenaline. Roll them tight, careful not to crease the paper, evidence needs to be pristine. I shove them inside my jacket, tucking them against my ribs where they won't slip free.
That's when I hear it. The soft click of a key turning in a lock.
The door opens.
Janelle stands, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent light from the hallway behind her. For a heartbeat, we both freeze. Her eyes go wide, shock first, then recognition, then fury blazing hot and immediate. Her mouth opens, breath catching.
I move.
She screams.
I'm already halfway out the window when she grabs for her phone. My boots hit the fire escape hard enough to rattle the whole structure. Above me, Maris leans over the edge, eyes huge.
"Go! Go!"
I go.
Down the ladder. Jump the last six feet. Land hard. Pain shoots up my shins but I'm already running. Behind me, Janelle's shouts echo off the brick walls.
Maris meets me at the corner. Grabs my hand. We run together through the alley. Past the dumpsters. Around the back of the café.
We don't stop until we're behind the storage shed. Both of us panting. Hearts racing.
