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The left-side door creaks open to reveal a roughly five-foot slip of woman in a crisp purple suit complete with eighties-style shoulder pads.

“Thank goodness you’re here.” The maybe mid-seventies madam bats humongous brown eyes up at me through a pair of purple cat-eye spectacles. A sparkly beaded chain drapes in purple pools from somewhere deep inside her oversized pouf of grey hair. “You can’t imagine how devastated I was when I got the call about a termite infestation—”

I tug on my cap. My stupid heart stutters; I was the one who made that call. Posed as the neighbor’s butler to inform them of the tragedy of a fast-spreading infection in their own home. Thought it was clever at the time.

But now . . . “Possible infestation.”

Dammit, Jax. This is not the moment to grow a conscience or tumble headfirst into ill-remembered past friendships. But old ladies are the one demographic I’ve always struggled to play, because I want to be nice.

Everyone’s got their weakness, no? Focus, Jax.

“We don’t know anything for sure.” I give her a smile, soft and sweet and grandsonly. Can’t help myself, but I feel halfway to fucking guilty about it. Fuck me. “Which is why I need to come inside.”

I stuff my hands into my pockets because I have a sudden urge to twitch and fidget and shuffle the cards stuffed in on the left side.

She pulls the door wider and waves me in. Naturally. Old ladies love me. “I’m Bertha.”

She steps back from the doorway, and I slip in after her. I mentally unfurl the blueprints Ricky procured for me, like a treasure map and I’m the world’s most subtle pirate. “Nice to meet you, Berth—”

The words die on my tongue as I peer past her into the house.

Pale marble tiles sweep into a massive two-story foyer bounded on either side by ornate Grecian columns—noble archways beckoning into other rooms. An elegant staircase tumbles down in front of a literal wall of windows overlooking a rose garden with a winding white-stone pathway meandering toward the vast pool deck.

I studied the shit out of the floorplans, but there’s nothing like seeing it in person. For a kid who grew up in the boondockiest of slums, lemme tell you, this shit’ll inspire some serious awe.

Focus, Jax. Don't get distracted by the columns.

Nick ain’t after Zeus’s ceiling supports.

Bertha’s still smiling at me, eyes wide and round behind them spectacles, waiting for me to come in and do my damned job.

My heels click on pale marble as I cross the threshold, force my gaze past all the . . . sparkle. Gotta see through the hoity-toity to notice how the chandelier overhead’s rocking some kind of newfangled button camera, aimed straight for the doorway.

“Welcome to the humble Morton home.” Bertha smiles as she steps back to admit me.

“Not sure humble’s the word I’d use.” Instinct has me shifting left, out of the camera’s view. The slightest flick of motion to my right draws my attention toward the top of the ornate staircase, where a second camera perches, tracking my movement.

Goddamn.

Lifts the hair on my arms, sends my fingers into another mini tap dance. Don’t like being tracked. Don’t like how much crosshatch there is between the cameras.

What’re you hiding, Morton? Something big—something Nick wants.

But why doesn’t that feel right?

“Well, this is Mr. Morton’s summer home.” Bertha watches me with owl-round eyes, one hand on the newel post of the mind-boggling staircase, seemingly unaware of both my speechlessness and my camera assessments. “And this is Jerry.”

“Who—” I lower my gaze from the massive chandelier as a mountainous human form humps into the room, shoulders all hunched up around his ears like a bashful gorilla. He’s gotta be the largest dude I’ve ever seen. Like, makes Ricky look like a damn folding chair.

“He’ll be helping you out,” Bertha says, once again oblivious to my gaping. “Showing you around.”

My teeth grit together. Great. A roided-up babysitter. Complete with combat boots and faded jeans and a big puffy sweatshirt and . . . I look up . . . and up. And up and up and up. Right into a round, full-cheeked, slightly pink, and definitely beaming face.

Um . . .

“Hey!” The giant starts across the foyer, a large hand extended toward me, an even larger grin stretched over his mouth. “I’m Jerry.”

Shit. This guy is straight-up puppy dog energy. Like five hundred pounds of grinning Great Dane. Do I run? Shake his hand?