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Mom . . . ? Oh. Oh! He’s Bertha’s son, then. Got it. And this is a family estate—old money. More treasures. Older ones, probably. Rare, one-of-a-kind valuables.

Any number of things that might lure in an out-of-town thief for some light stalking. “Bet there’s a lot of cool stuff in this house.”

“Oh, yeah!” The elevator drifts to a stop, but in the pause before the door opens, Jerry unloads an information barrage à la Jax Summer. “There’s a map room and a game room and the master bedroom is so cool, and the art room, and a room that’s all sailboat models—”

The lift doors whip open, leaving us in the middle of a wide hallway. My head spins with trying to sort through Jerry’s weaponized info-dump whilst surveying the scenery.

Sleek hardwoods stretch out to either side. The wall shared with the elevator’s painted a muted yellow, bright and cheery, lined with beige doors.

Across the hall, a thick white railing serves as the only divider between me and a two-story drop. “So, I shouldn’t lean over too far, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t get close to the rail.” Jerry shrugs as he leads me down the hall to the first door. “Master bedroom! Cool, right?”

I slip in behind him. “Wow. It’s definitely something.”

Yeah, it’s way more than a bedroom. Massive four-poster canopy bed, two walk-ins larger than my first apartment, conversation pit, crown molding, sparkle sparkle—no less than four cameras, and what appears to be its own closed-circuit alarm system.

In the far back corner near the ensuite bath, on a private ledge surrounded by windows—“Is that a Jacuzzi? Man, I’d like to soak in that. That’s a real tub?”

“Yep!” Jerry nods. Beaming like he’s personally responsible for the tub’s existence and prime placement. “So . . . where do we start?”

Alas. No soaking for Jax, then. Doubt Nick’s pulling the plumbing anyway; the quest continues.

So, then begins the tedious task of pretending I’m looking for termites. As if I have any idea what I’d be looking for in the very rare case that I was, in fact, sussing out wood-eating ants.

Boooring.

Useful, though.

I drop to my hands and knees in the corner, angle my head down like I’m looking for holes in the wood, and tilt my gaze to make goo-goo eyes at the first camera. It’s blatantly staring down a plain wooden bureau in the far corner. Probably a safe—ordinary stuff like jewelry, cash, yadda yadda—way too obvious to be something more fun.

Boring.

Not enough to draw a hesiter outta Harlem.

“Do termites poop?” Jerry, however, is a riot.

I bark out a laugh as I crawl along a particularly long stretch of curlicued trim.

“You know . . .” My eyes flick up to the window trim. Two high-grade magnetic reed switches. Armed. Techy, but not unfamiliar. I trace the wire back to the junction box, then peer over my shoulder at my new bud. He perches on the edge of the dressing table stool, looking comically oversized in proportion to the frilly, lace-covered pouf of femininity. “I really have no idea. They chew wood, so . . . probably? Gotta do something with it, right?”

His joyful face pulls into lines of intense concentration. “Jeez. I wonder what termite poop looks like.”

I laugh again. Holy shit, where’s this dude getting these deep worldly musings? While I’m studying security architecture, he’s pondering the excrement of tiny insects.

“Look like? Chewed wood, I imagine.” I rise in a fluid motion, pivot to survey the room’s perimeter. The camera tucked into the crown molding isn’t just a motion sensor; it’s a dual-lense unit I believe, unless I learned nothing from Chloe.

Expensive. Heat-mapped. I add it to the mental checklist.

“Would it come out looking like that, though?”

Seriously, this guy’s a hoot. I’d love to take him out for drinks, see what other kind of wisdoms he’s packing up in that noodle.

“You know, buddy?” My hand drifts to the wall behind the heavy oak wardrobe, pressing into the plaster. Solid. No hidden panels. It’s a good thing I’m a gifted multitasker. “I’ve no idea. But let’s hope we don’t find any, right?”

Not that I’m actually sifting through termite poop—if it exists—looking for clues. I lean quickly into the ensuite bath. Alarm pad near the shower, and a quick glance confirms the model: a high-end kinetic-lock bypass. I could crack it in ten seconds flat, but in a damn bathroom?

Either this guy’s paranoid as fuck, or he’s got something to hide—the kinda shit that might bring a conman from Queens—but . . . what?