That’s my mantra now.
It’s day four, and as I pick the barrel lock at Nova’s front door in the middle of a sunny day of high visibility, I keep my ears pricked for sound and one eye over my shoulder, with the other directly in front of me in case I walk into a trap Nichols laid down before Aster had him killed. I’m brutally aware that anyone could see me standing here. For every second I’m on the porch, fighting with a lock the guy spared no expense installing, I could be called out and my mission blown.
Which would be both horrifying and dangerous—for Nova.
But small-town living, and having a house not directly within its limits, means traffic is scarce at best. Those who are at home and likely to peek through the curtains—the retired, the nosy, and the gossiping moms chugging coffee—are busy watching their midday movies or wrangling kids and praying for the next naptime to roll closer.
Nova, luckily, is at the bank and not coming home soon.
“Son of a bitch.” Frustratingly proud of Nichols for setting his sister up with a lock not easily picked, encased within a barrel that appears original to the house, I flick my wrist and add an extra jiggle to bounce the springs away from the latch. Tripping the lock and pocketing my tools, I cast one last glance toward the road while listening for whatever security system Ryan might’ve installed before his death. A gun pointing toward my head, perhaps, or a pair of heavy boots thundering along the hall. But when the world stays silent, and my cursory study of the road ensures I remain alone, I draw a deep breath and commit to my task.
Get in. Get out. Get it done.
Nudging the door open and crossing the threshold, I move in silence and make damn sure not to track dust into the house. I peek around the empty living room, past the couch with cushions not quite straightened since last night, and the television that sits off, not on standby, like most folks do.
Carefully, I close the door and flip the lock again. Looking left, then right, I orient myself and consider where I should start. I have an hour, max, before I have to get out of here. Any longer than that, and I risk being caught. Longer than that, and I risk knocking something askew, or leaving something out that shouldn’t be.
Nova said her hidey-holes make sense. Truck keys in the garage, and weapons in the bedroom. She places things where she’s most likely to need them, hiding the rest where it’s unlikely anyone would think to look.
So where?
Where am I unlikely to look? And does she even have the thing—whatever the fuckingthingis—or is it among her brother’s belongings and literally displayed in plain sight?
Shaking my head, I make my choice and head into the hall, nudging doors open as I pass and pausing when I find Nova’s bedroom, her bed neatly made and the dress she wore at the car yard yesterday draped across the foot of the mattress.
I don’t head in just yet. Because chances are, her bedroom cache comprises a knife, a copy of her ID, and a hundred-dollar bill. Instead, I continue along the hall and draw a long breath when the scent of her perfume lingers near the bathroom. Where she showered and prepared for her day at work. Primping her hair and dabbing on a little lipstick, she would’ve studied the grazes on her face and the stitches sending her mad. When she remembered how they came to be, a wash of sorrow would’ve flooded her veins. She would have clamped her lips shut and told herself not to cry.
To harden up.
That thing about baseball.
She refuses herself the space to grieve, like there’s a timeline and rules, and if she doesn’t follow them, the world will consider her weak.
No. I don’t go in there either.
Stepping away from the door and the cold, crisp tiles that would freeze a man’s toes in the winter, I move to the next and find the one I’m looking for. Fuck knows, I’ve never met Staff Sergeant Ryan Nichols, but I immediately find a bed made with military corners. Blankets of dark green, and a duffel bag, still full, and still sitting on the end of the mattress.
It’s like he never truly unpacked. Or if he did, Nova tucked his things away again after the accident, clueless to what her next step might be.
Donate? Toss? Accept that life will never be the same again?
None are options she’s been able to explore just yet.
Out of a deeply ingrained habit I’ll never truly escape, I check over my shoulder and slip through the doorway. Closing it at my back, then studying the room, I catalog the space Nichols spent his time in when he wasn’t away on a mission.
A closet to the right, one of those older styles of ugly brown, with the world’s flimsiest lock and six feet of heavy wood perched atop the kinds of claw-feet antique stores typically go nuts for. On the wall opposite the bed, a set of matching drawers stands proud, with golden knocker-style handles that’ll clang and sing anytime a man tries to open one.
I duck low and check under the bed, but if I expect to find a treasure box or a mess of forgotten laundry and dust balls, I’m left with neither. Just a perfectly clean space. Not even a sock.
Straightening, I make a beeline for the drawers first, since they’re the noisiest and most likely to hide a man’s belongings. Pulling each one open, I start at the top and push his things aside. Socks. Boxers. A watch that makes me pause, and beneath it, a notebook and pen.
I grab all three and set them in a pile on top.
I close that drawer and go to the next, but while I slide neatly folded shirts aside, lifting some to ensure nothing has been tucked between, my phone vibrates in my back pocket, drawing half of my focus and the entirety of my ire. Because if Aster is calling again for an update while I’m literally doing the fucking job, I intend to tear his face off.
But his isn’t the name I find.
Instead, I shoot straight and whip my gaze toward the door. Because Nova beckons me. Her name flashes for attention, and her picture—the smiling portrait I took of her and her shiny new truck—fills my screen. She bamboozled Dixon out of his commission and made him thank her for it at the end, and to commemorate the moment, she faked a smile and allowed herself to pretend the world didn’t hurt quite so much.
