“Fuck. If we don’t want to get caught, we need to do this now.”
Just then, Sam and Mountain come rushing up the stairs, breathless.
“We’re here,” Sam whispers.
“There you go. Where the hell have y’all been?” Kane quizzes.
My gaze narrows to them, taking in their very disheveledappearances. Sam’s lips are bare, despite being painted red when she arrived, and swollen like she’s just been kissed. Mountain’s hair is slightly ruffled, opposed to how meticulously combed it was earlier. Mountain catches me looking.
I huff and shake my head. We’re on a time crunch and these two found time to bang.Rich.
“Where’s Gracie?” Sam asks when she doesn’t see her roommate.
Kane shrugs. “Don’t know. Hopefully she’s in position at the party to let me know when anyone leaves. Y’all go ahead, I’ll keep watch here.” He keys something in his phone, probably typing in the safe word just so he doesn’t have to waste time trying to type a message if we’re going to get caught.
We nod and take off with me leading the charge. Sam is on my heels with Mountain only feet behind her. Approaching my father’s office, I punch in the code to disengage the lock: the date my great-great-great-grandfather migrated to this country. His obsession with legacy should be studied. The lock releases and I push inside. We immediately turn on our flashlights and close the door behind us.
Mountain stays close to the door, peeking out every so often to ensure no one is nearby.
“Sam, check those cabinets over there. Look for anything that looks like it matches the name of the club, initials, names. Anything.”
Setting her clutch on the desk, Sam rushes to the cabinet and crouches down to eye level. “It needs a code.”
I let out a breath and jog over to her. After inputting the code, it opens. I smirk. For a man with several masters and a doctorate, he isn’t very smart. But I’ve also been breaking into his shit since I was a kid.
“Thanks,” Sam whispers and reaches for the drawer.
I place my hand on top of hers, drawing her eyes to mine. “I hope he made you cum.”
Sam’s eyes go wide, and I can’t stop the grin from forming. She’s cute when she’s flustered. I point my eyes to the wet spot on the front of Mountain’s slacks.
Sam’s cheeks grow flushed as she hides her face in her palm. “Oh my God.”
I smirk then stand and return to my father’s desk.
Sam searches through the files, taking pictures of anything she finds, while I work on getting into his computer. At least he was smart enough to use a different password this time, but I eventually figure it out—a combination of my and my mother’s birthdates.
The screen loads up, and an image of our family as the wallpaper stares back at me. I was about eight here, standing in front of an NHL arena. That was my first game, and the day I decided I wanted to play hockey.
I shake away the thoughts and click through his folders. Everything is systematically labeled, from business files, pictures, and other important stuff like his will and life insurance policies. All standard things, and nothing suspicious. Until I move the cursor over the screen and an icon lights up.
At first glance there’s nothing there, but with the mouse directly on it, I can see the folder. It’s hidden, damn near invisible. The sneaky bastard used the section of the background photo as the icon image so that it blends in perfectly. Only he would know that it’s there. It isn’t labeled, just a discreet little square that fits like a puzzle piece.Smart.
I click on it.Encrypted.
I stare at the screen, something telling me that this password wouldn’t be like the others. It would be something no one buthim would ever guess. My eyes fall on different parts of the room in search of anything of significance. Then my gaze falls to the framed photo on his desk. It’s him and members of his graduating class, Mr. Kincaid, Senator Martinez, Mr. Sheffield, and several others.
I type in the year he graduated.Incorrect.
Then I try the day and month he graduated, and file after file floods the screen, sending a flash of light through the room.
“Bingo.” I flop down in the chair and scan the screen for anything that stands out.
There are more neatly categorized folders, seemingly organized by class year. When I find 2005 among the list, I hesitate for a beat, then open it. More folders glare at me, this time with names instead of dates. In the first row, a name stands out.
Collins, Miranda.
“Got it,” I beam.
