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Thinking.

Something’s not right here, not adding up.

My muscles tense with sudden fight-or-flight readiness, but nothing moves in the dark.

What am I missing?

My instinct says to pick that lock, get in. Get answers. But not when something’s so clearly off. When something’s off, you play it cautious.

If the door’s locked, the alarm might be prepped too. So instead, I drop to the floor, flatten myself down to peer beneath the crack between hardwood and door.

Nothing.

No light. Just more darkness.

Did he leave already? Did I spend too long downstairs, playing with Blondie? Am I too late?

Tick-tick-tick.

No way he moved that fast.

My breath catches in my throat, pulse ticks against my eardrums. What have I missed here? Nick’s not in this room, unless he’s working in the pitch black, in utter silence. Unlikely.

So . . . where is he?

They cut power to this floor, so he must be here somewhere.

I climb to my feet. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. My ears and eyes strain like they can peel back the darkness . . . But there’s nothing.

Anxiety eats away at the inside of my stomach like an ulcer. The fuck am I missing? When something you expect to happen doesn’t happen . . . in my line of work, it usually means you fucked up. Miscalculated.

Missed a critical factor.

What?

I don’t miscalculate.

Miscalculating means you get fucking caught. And I don’t get caught.

Breathe, Jax.

I don’t get fucking caught. So it’s time to recalibrate and recalculate. Do it right this time.

I flatten my back to the wall, gaze tracking down the dark, silent hall. Nothing. No one. No movement, no sound. Just darkness.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I pull a deep, calming breath in through my nose. Soothing my nerves, my heart rate, the clenched feeling in my gut that says something is wrong.

Breathe. Think.

He’s gotta be on this floor. Somewhere. Why the fuck else would they have cut the power here? Another safe or alarm they want disabled?

What am I missing?

No. Breathe. I pull so hard my lungs want to burst. Let it out slow.

On silent feet, right hand against the wall to guide me through the dark, I slide down the hallway. My fingers find the frame of the next door, curve over the carved wood. Second bedroom, or—no. This is the bathroom between them. The door’s open, only darkness inside.