by Julia Swift
But I’m running out of time. For myself, for him, but most importantly, for Sloan. I cannot let Aaron send one of his dogs after her. No matter what, I will make sure that never happens.
The first door is easy. It’s Freddie’s actual apartment that gives me pause. I undo the doorknob lock easily enough, then the bolt lock, but when I try to open it, I feel three other bolt latches stopping me.
This kid is ten kinds of paranoid. He’s got painted-over locks for the lowest of the latches, so it blends into the door, looking the same pale white. At a glance you’d never even notice it. Once I pick that one, the other two are even harder to spot. A false panel in the door hides the second, and the third one has a fake lock over it, which I have to pick just to reach the real lock so I can spring that one too.
The whole time, sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, gluing my T-shirt to my skin. There’s too much riding on this job. Every time I blink I see her face, and that’s making me sloppy. It takes me three tries to free the final bolt, and when I do, the sound of a car in the driveway has me flattened on the floor, creeping toward the communal apartment window to double-check.
Mailman.
Fucking hell.
Then I’m back at Freddie’s door, swinging it open at last.
At first glance, the living room looks normal. Sagging couch the color of dog shit, gray shag carpet that looks like one of those extra-hairy dogs up and died in the middle of the room. Guy definitely does not share his sister’s taste for home-making.
I skip right past the living room anyway and beeline straight for the bedroom. More specifically, for the computer that’s still idling beside the bed, a monster of a machine. It’s got to be the most expensive thing in this whole apartment—probably worth even more than that junker of a car he just drove off in.
Lucky for me, Freddie seems to have been in a hurry. I catch the mouse before the computer goes totally idle. It’s unlocked, and with a half dozen browsers still open too.
His email account is full of spam about video games, new movies out online, and Nigerian princes offering vast sums of money in exchange for his help with one simple problem. It doesn’t look like he uses this account for much beyond eBay purchases, and even when I click into a few of those, it doesn’t look like he’s buying anything more expensive than $15 special editions of comic books or $7 special discounts on vitamin D.
Not exactly the inbox of a guy sitting on $500,000.
Not the inbox of a guy who blew through $500,000 he can’t pay back, either.
Crunching tires. Another car.
I’ve been kneeling on the floor beside the computer so my head won’t show in the window. Now I cast an eye around the room desperately and spot a mirrored photo frame, inside which a picture of young Sloan, Freddie, and a woman I don’t know (though judging by the similarities, she has to be their mother) all smiling at the camera. I try not to think too hard about the way Sloan leans against Freddie’s arm, her smile so wide and trusting. Did she know when this photo was taken what her brother was going to get into?
Would she forgive me if she knew what I was doing in his place right now?
No time to worry about it now. A car door slams outside. I lift the photo frame and angle it just right, aimed at the parking lot outside. If anyone looks up at the window now, they won’t see me peering out; they’ll only see a flash of silver, the sun catching the edge of this makeshift mirror.
Shit.
Outside sits the junker Ford, Freddie and Normal in the front seats. Still talking, for now.
I tap a few keys to send the computer into idle mode and cast my eye around the apartment one last time, memorizing. I’ll think harder about the scene later, review what I do and don’t see. For now, I just cement the contents of the room in my memory as I place the photo back on the side table.
I sprint into the living room, take another mental photograph, and ease the door shut behind me. In the hallway, I freeze, assessing. One staircase, leading up from here into the rest of the building. From the outside, it looked like it was five stories tall, and Freddie’s on the third floor.
I’ll have to go up. But in order to do that, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t look like anyone was here.
I take a deep breath and hold it, my ears throbbing as I listen for the downstairs door, and insert my picks into the first lock.
Re-locking a door is a helluva lot harder than locking it initially, especially from the outside. I get the doorknob done, then the main bolt. I’m halfway through re-bolting the third one, set into the floor, when the jangle of keys against the apartment entrance sends me moving again.
I jam the lockpicks into my pockets and take the steps up to the fourth floor two at a time, my feet balanced on the outer edges of the steps to distribute my weight, preventing them from creaking beneath me.
The fourth floor is empty, but I keep going anyway, up to the fifth. My breath comes faster now, not so much from the stairs as from the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my heart throbbing in my chest.
Below, the stairs creak as Freddie reaches his floor. There’s a distant jangle of keys, again.
Please don’t notice the other locks, I think. Please just assume you were in a hurry, you forgot to lock them.
If he finds me up here, in this building, if he calls the cops or worse, Aaron . . .
I reach the fifth floor. Also empty. And there, in the corner, salvation: a ladder leading up to the roof.
I swing onto the metal rungs, keeping most of my weight on my hands so my boots won’t clang at every step. I move up, up, up, until I’m eight feet above floor level, and I pause to unlatch the roof door.
It’s not locked, I note, just barred with a simple hook latch. Good to know in the future.
Downstairs, the jangling has stopped. I hear a door slam.
I push the roof hatch open, and the harsh wind up here slaps me in the face.
Maybe he went into the apartment again. Maybe he didn’t notice.
No such luck. A minute later, the door crashes open again, so hard it hits a wall downstairs.
Fuck.
I haul myself off the ladder onto the roof, and even though every instinct in my body wants to run, flee the scene as fast as I can, I force myself to move slowly. Close the roof door an inch at a time, easing it shut, so the rusty hinges won’t scream out and give me away.
Finally, after what feels like forever, but was probably only a couple of seconds, just as I hear footsteps begin to thunder up the apartment staircase, I ease the roof hatch completely closed.
Then I do the only thing I can think of, up here on top of a five-story building, my car a distant dot on the street, and no sign of a fire escape in sight.
I sit on the hatch and pray.
It takes longer than I expect. Judging by the amount of locks on his door, I would’ve pegged him for a quicker study than this.
The seconds tick past, and I keep myself perfectly still, trained by years of practice. Eventually, there it comes, the thud underneath me, and the pressing weight of Freddie shoving up on the trap door. Of course, I weigh too much for him to get any purchase while balanced on that rickety ladder up here. He shoves against the door a couple of times, until, unable to make it budge, he gives up. I press my ear to the crack in the trapdoor and listen to him trudge back downstairs, and only then do I stand and creep toward the roof’s edge.
Ten-foot drop onto the nearest balcony, someone on the top floor apartment’s bedroom porch, from the looks of it. I let myself fall, and land hard in a crouch, my eyes on the window beside it. No movement inside, and gauzy white curtains shield me from view.
I curl up on the porch to wait it out. If I run right downstairs now, Freddie will be on high alert. But if I sit here, cool off a little, give him time to go outside and check the front of the building, then trudge back up to his apartment, I’ll be able to climb down the couple of porches along this face of the building until I reach the ground.
; It’ll take longer than I expected this errand to take, but I don’t have much choice, really. I check my watch and grimace. Shit. It’s already 5 p.m. This is running way late. Sloan gets off from the day shift she’s working today in a few minutes. I promised to meet her at work, pick her up for a movie date.
Much as it pains me, I have to put the thought out of my head, lean back against the railing, and wait.
Chapter Twenty
Sloan
5:30, and still no sign of Gage. I sit on the curb outside Morton’s, having already waved goodbye to my coworkers half an hour ago. Rick sticks his head out of the door when another round of customers enter.
“Yvette’s running late, you want to come back in and cover ’til she gets here?” he asks.
I cast one last, longing glance at the road in both directions, but alas, there’s no sign of his car anywhere. I heave one last sigh, and trail after Rick back into the diner, slinging on my apron once more. “Just for a few minutes,” I tell him. “Then I’ve gotta run.”
“Uh huh,” he replies with a meaningful sideways glance that tells me he is not buying it. It’s not like I told him I had a date, but when was the last time I ever waited around for anyone to pick me up besides Freddie? And when Freddie picks me up, he always insists on arriving an hour early so he can get a free meal out of it, when I sneak him side dishes from the kitchen.
Great. So not only have I been stood up, but my jerkiest manager knows it too. He saw me with Gage a few nights ago; he’ll have guessed by now I’m waiting around for that same guy like a pathetic hanger-on.
“You know, guys like it when you play hard-to-get,” my coworker Bethany comments as she breezes past me with a tray full of steaks.
Oh good. And Rick helpfully told everyone who works here his theory too.
Rick pats my shoulder as I head back to key in the first of Yvette’s tables’ orders. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea,” he says with a smirk.
Kill me now.
I end up sticking around for half of Yvette’s shift. By the time she makes it into the diner at 7:30, apologizing profusely about her car breaking down, the dinnertime rush is out in full force. I stick around an extra half an hour to help with the flurry of customers, and then I clock out once more, folding my apron and counting out my tips for the second time that day.
“You need a ride home?” Rick calls as I’m almost to the door. “I’m finishing up here in twenty.”
Why is he acting so friendly all of a sudden? Normally the most he ever talks to me is to scowl or point out that I’m doing something wrong.
“I’m good.” I shrug into my coat. “I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.” And for once it’s still pretty warm out, the spring evenings finally beginning to turn pleasantly breezy instead of frigid.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and goes back to counting up our profits from the dinner rush.
I push out of the exit door and suck in a deep breath of salt-tinged seaside air. Only now, finally alone and away from the prying eyes of my coworkers, do I let the disappointment and exhaustion show on my face.
Still no sign of Gage, though of course I, like an idiot, can’t help checking in both directions for his car before I button my coat tight and trudge onto the road.
No word from him, either. Not that I’ve been checking my phone every ten seconds since 5 p.m. or anything. I pull it out one last time and open a next text to him. Heading home. Sorry I didn’t see you tonight.
That’s all. He’s smart enough to figure out I’ll be upset. If he even cares.
Ugh. Why did I let myself fall for him so fast? Like an idiot, I listened when he kept talking about how much he cared about me. In truth, we hardly know each other. It’s only been a couple of days, and while I know he enjoyed it—the expression on his face last night told me that plainly enough—I shouldn’t have expected anything real or lasting to come out of this.
Nothing that starts this quickly or burns this hot could possibly be real. Nothing that feels this addictive could possibly last.
Now my drug is being taken away, and I’m going to have to deal with the withdrawal alone. I whip out my phone a second time and place a call to my brother instead.
Four rings in, it goes to voicemail. “I see how it is,” I tell his answering machine, in what I hope sounds like a playful, teasing tone, but which I’m pretty sure came out sounding way more morose than I intended. It feels like everyone’s avoiding me tonight. And why?
Fuck it. I might not feel confident enough to march over to Gage’s place and confront him about what the hell he thinks he’s doing standing me up, but I can sure as hell crash my own brother’s undoubtedly uneventful night. He’s probably five hours deep into a video game marathon, or binge-watching one of his favorite sci-fi shows on Netflix. Nothing that can’t stand to be interrupted.
If anything will cheer me up—and remind me that I don’t need a guy’s affection (much as, admittedly, I really want it)—it’ll be popping a terribad made-for-TV movie into my brother’s DVD player and making him order me an XL pizza, heavy on the cheese. Tonight’s a night for comfort food.
I’m almost able to forget about the sinking ache in my chest by the time I reach my apartment. Inside, I change out of my work uniform, wrinkling my nose at the whiff of diner-scent that still clings to it, and shimmy into loose jeans and a tank top. Not the cutest outfit ever, but I’m not in the mood for dressing nicely tonight.
I grab the top movie from my stack of to-watch DVDs, toss it into my purse alongside a toothbrush, just in case I’m too lazy to drive home, and stomp down the stairs into my car. Distraction, here I come.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gage
Every time I’m about to stand up and climb the rest of the way down this godforsaken building, yet another car pulls up out front, freezing me in place yet again, as I wait for potential witnesses to clear the area. By the time I finally have a long enough window to drop down all five stories to the ground, it’s dark out and I’m frozen stiff in my T-shirt.
I dust myself off in the flowerbed, and, still being careful to avoid any headlights or passersby, I make my way across the lawn back to my car.
No sooner have I escaped the balcony where I was trapped than my phone rings. I was checking the time, inwardly cursing—already 7:45 p.m., Sloan is probably pissed at me, or worse, upset—when the unknown name unknown number ID popped up. There’s only one person that call could be from.
Or, well, one person, or a telemarketer. But I’m pretty sure it’s not the latter.
“What do you want, Aaron?” I say when I hit accept.
“Shit. Did the call block break again?” he asks from the other line. I can almost picture him scowling at his phone now, wondering if he messed up the settings that allow him to anonymously harass most of his clientele.
“Nope, I’m just smart,” I reply as I unlock my car door and swing into the passenger seat.
“Yes, well, I’m not so convinced about that.”
My fists clench in anticipation. “What now?”
“I just got a call from our cybersecurity expert.” Fancy term for the Topknot lookalike who he pays to monitor his online bank accounts, but okay. “Cybersecurity” it is. “Looks like there’s someone mucking about in my email account. They left a message in the Draft folder, so we can’t trace the IP address or location it was saved from. But the log-in records show they’re based in downtown Atlantic City. Would you like to hear the message?”
My eyes dart to the window in Fred Casey’s room. The soft yellow light spilling out of his computer room, highlighting his now-familiar profile, still bent over the keyboard, the same position he’s been in just about all morning. “I have a feeling you’ll tell me whether I’d like to hear it or not,” I mutter.
“Maybe you are smarter than you look,” Aaron snaps. “Though not very adept at covering your tracks. ‘Dear Mr. O’Malley,’ it starts out, can you believe that?”
I don�
��t answer him. I shut my eyes and wait for the verdict.
“ ‘Dear Mr. O’Malley, It has come to my attention that you’ve been sending your associates to check up on me, and the remittance of a loan I purportedly borrowed from your establishment.’ This kid.” Aaron actually laughs. “ ‘I would hate to have to file a police report, especially given the nature of your dealings. If you would like me to keep this quiet, I suggest you ask your employee to meet me face-to-face, and tell me exactly what it is you need from me. That will be better than all this beating around the bush, don’t you think? Or shall I say, hiding on my rooftop.’ Not sure what that last bit means, Gage, but I can take a wild guess,” Aaron adds, his tone less than pleased. “The email is signed Frederick Casey.”
I grind my molars together. Shit. Okay, so the kid is sharper than I took him for. It wouldn’t take a rocket science to tie me to Aaron, considering the timing of my break-in at his apartment. “What do you want me to do?” I ask, my eyes shut tight.
“Well, I think we’d better do as he asks, don’t you? Go to his apartment, have a little chat. Tell him we’d like the $500,000, or we’re going to have to take this to the next level. Do me a favor and don’t be that polite about it, either. Let him know we mean business. Think you can handle that without screwing it up, Gage?”
Deep breaths. Do not threaten your scary, sketchy as fuck employer. You won’t live to tell the tale. “Got it,” I finally answer gruffly, when I’ve tamped down the Go fuck yourself far enough that it won’t accidentally slip out of my mouth right now.
We hang up without another word, and I stuff my cell into my pocket, forcing myself to ignore the missed text that just popped up from Sloan. I’ll reply to her as soon as I can. Unfortunately, right now, I still have business to attend to.