Guilt sprouts in my chest, beating like a second heart. None of these depraved thoughts are welcome.
None should ever be entertained.
I need my head full of answers, not idle daydreams of how Hailey looks under those cardigans and what I could do with her. I need her diary, full of memories, questions, and possible answers.
???
I wait until it’s late enough that most everyone will be fast asleep. The campus is silent as I exit my room, taking light, cautious steps down the stairs.
Sounds that wouldn’t be noticeable during the day are amplified in the deathly silence. Every thump of my boots and rustle of my uncomfortable jeans reverberates in the empty corridor, threatening to wake the whole building.
Even my heart beats louder than a bass drum through the Coachella sound system.
It’s an illusion. I’m moving toward the exit almost soundlessly but knowing my route sharpens my instincts.
I push the tall, heavy wooden doors open and step outside, greeted by the cool evening air. Moving along the walls to avoid the camera, I make my way toward the girls’ dormitories. All the lights are off in the building, except one, two floors up from Hailey’s.
Beneath the layer of perfume, lotions, and scented candles inside the girl’s dorm, a musty smell fills the air as I ascend the first staircase, each creak underfoot unnaturally loud.
I was here a few hours ago, perfectly certain I’d find my way back to Hailey’s room without a hiccup, but the long maze of corridors seems to have a mind of its own.
Left, then right... I second-guess each turn, nearly jumping out of my skin when I round a corner and see an indistinct figure coming straight at me. Pausing for a beat, I watch the flickering lights cast a long, slender-man-type shadow across the walls.
It’s only the janitor, but a chill zaps me when he walks past like I’m not there, his boots making almost no sound. I bet he knows every creaking floorboard in this place.
Shaking off the last ten seconds, I head down the corridor, take a left, and immediately turn left again, finding the second staircase. It’s narrower than the first, the steps worn from years of use.
My heart pounds in my chest, an undeniable tension in the air, as I reach Hailey’s door. The faintest sounds are magnified tenfold as I examine the lock, my own breathing a loud whisper in my ears.
I’m not new to breaking and entering. I’ve done this a thousand times, but it feels different tonight.
More nerve racking.
Not only because getting caught will bring consequences, but also because a small part of me is fighting this idea. I’m already betraying what little trust I’ve earned from Hailey.
If she wakes up and spots me, I won’t regain that trust, irredeemably complicating my task.
Taking a deep breath, I take a knee, pulling out what will act as a stopgap tension wrench and hook pick from my back pocket: bobby pins.
I’ve broken into many places in my life, but never exercised this much caution. My breaking and entering technique involves a heavy kick and watching the door snap off its hinges. Getting spotted or waking up the tenants doesn’t normally matter. They’re dead men walking, minutes or hours away from meeting their maker.
But not tonight.
I can’t draw any attention. Hailey can’t ever know I’ve done this, so I watched dozens of DIY lockpicking videos online. Then I went hunting for bobby pins since they seemed the easiest option on a campus full of women studying performing arts.
I already instructed Broadway to send over a lockpicking kit. For now, I found a stash of bobby pins backstage in the theater and shaped them as per the instructional video.
Now, recalling what I learned, I maneuver my DIY tools within the lock, nudging the first pin upward.
Click.
Not as hard as I expected.
There’s a rhythm to it: find a pin, push it up, feel it set, and move on. Seconds stretch into eternity while my focus narrows, tuning out everything save for the pins.
Kicking the door down would be infinitely easier.
Click.
