Megan has explained the basics. The rest I know from my dad.
Breaching a secure location isn’t about speed. It’s about efficiency. Going fast won’t do you any good if you spend half your time turning over floor lamps and setting off alarms.
So I know what to do. I know how to do it. After all, we’ve gone over it a dozen times. I’ve seen it in my sleep a dozen more. But it feels like someone else is inside my body — like I am watching from afar — as Noah, Megan, and I walk across the street.
On the off-chance the neighbors are watching, we walk and do not run. I laugh like a normal girl would (but not too loudly) and talk to my friends (but not too excitedly) and, most of all, I watch the small window in the door of the house that is almost always dark. When the top of a tiny head appears there, I’m ready.
The door swings open.
“What took you so long?” Rosie says with a wink.
The light on the security system is blinking red. A beeping sound is counting down. But Megan already has a tiny device out and is doing something to the keypad on the wall by the door. I see numbers spiraling across the screen, running through a sequence one by one, pecking out the code.
And still the chime keeps beeping.
“Megan …” Noah warns.
“Just a —” Another beep comes, longer, louder. Then it stops. “Got it.” Megan practically exhales the words, then leans against the wall and takes a deep breath. For the first time, she looks as terrified as Noah.
“Nice system.” Rosie sounds impressed.
Noah turns, taking in the first floor. “Not a nice place.”
He has a point. For all the security the Scarred Man has, you would think he’d be protecting art. Jewels. At the very least some high-end electronics. But the narrow room in which we stand has a fireplace and one very worn chair. There are no books on the shelves. We walk on and find very little food in the kitchen.
“It’s like a safe house,” Megan says.
“But it’s his house,” Noah adds. It’s easy to forget that, according to public records, the Scarred Man has lived here for ten years.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s split up and do this. I want us out of here fast.”
No one complains. No one asks any questions. Megan goes to work on the computer, and Rosie climbs onto Noah’s shoulders and starts installing cameras in the light fixtures and smoke detectors.
“What should I do?” I ask Megan.
“Don’t break anything,” she tells me.
I wish I had a job — something to do — but the truth is, I would be useless at it. Megan isn’t just smart about computers. She knows this about me, too. I am in the Scarred Man’s house, and all I can do is look at the bed, thinking, The man who killed my mother sleeps here. In the bathroom, I look into the mirror and imagine his face staring back at me. The face that I saw through the smoke and the fire. The face that has haunted me for years.
Carefully, I run my fingers across the top of the dresser. A little loose change lies on the table by the bed. In his walk-in closet there are five dark suits, identical in cut, and seven white shirts all fresh from the dry cleaner and still in their plastic bags. It looks more like a hotel room than a home. Like he fully expects to pack everything up and be gone at a moment’s notice. Like he knows that someday the ghosts will catch up to him.
He just doesn’t know today is that day.
I don’t feel any pain as my fingernails dig into my palms. There is no blood, just a steady, constant throbbing to tell me that I am still alive. I am alive but my mother is dead. And I’m in the home of the man who killed her.
“Oh no.”
Megan’s voice isn’t quite a shout, and that is why it’s scary.
“What is it?” Noah asks.
“We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go now.”
“Where’s Grace?” someone says.
I hear the question in my ear, but I can’t take my eyes off of the leather jacket that hangs in the back of the closet. It’s a deep, worn brown. The sleeves are so soft that I know that it used to be his favorite. The position in the closet tells me that it isn’t anymore.
I step farther back into the closet, and then I’m not in the townhome. I’m standing on the street. I see the man through the window of my mother’s shop, his tall frame and broad shoulders, the dark brown leather jacket that he wears.
I reach for the sleeve, bring the soft cotton cuff to my nose. And in the confined space I swear that it still smells like smoke.
The cuff is stiff in one place and I finger it, know instantly that it’s dried blood.
My mother’s blood is on my hands.
“Grace,” a voice says in my ear, but I don’t move. I can’t. My body no longer belongs to me. It is frozen in the past.
“Grace!” Noah’s hand is on my arm. “We’ve got to get out of here. He’s coming.”
“No!” Megan’s voice rings out just as, downstairs, a door opens and closes.
I look at Noah. He shakes his head. “He’s here.”
Carefully, Noah reaches for the door and pulls it closed. He pushes me farther back into the closet. I’m pressed right up against the leather jacket, wondering how Noah can breathe so deeply in a tiny space that is so filled with smoke.
There is so much smoke.
“You okay?” Noah whispers.
I nod my head and try to slow my breathing, and yet my heart keeps pounding. I think I might throw up.
“What happened?” I whisper. “I thought he was supposed to be gone most of the night?”
Megan hears me over the mic. “He must have a secondary system. The motion detectors went off and now … hide!”
We’re already hiding, but Noah doesn’t say that. He’s too busy looking at me.
“Grace, are you okay?”
“Fine.” I force the word out. I’m grateful for the darkness and the cramped space. Noah is pressing into me. I couldn’t see the door if I tried. There is absolutely no place for me to run or room for me to move. He’s pressing against me so tightly that I can’t even tremble.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Noah whispers. “What do people usually do in these situations? I mean … we could make out?” Even in the dark, he reads the look I give him. “Or not. Yeah. I was thinking not.”
I hear footsteps in the bedroom. The closet door opens and closes quickly — just a cursory glance. Noah and I stay shrouded in the shadows.
The phone rings and I hear the Scarred Man answer, but I can’t make out the words.
Is it the alarm company calling to check on the disturbance? His boss calling to ask why he left his post? Wrong number?
I can’t tell.
I’m not sure how long we stand in the dark. I try to focus on my breathing, the rise and fall of Noah’s chest. But I can’t stop thinking about the smoke.
I would do anything to stop thinking about the smoke.
“Okay, guys. On our signal, head for the skylight.” Megan’s whisper is too loud in my ear.
“What’s the signal?” Noah asks, but almost before the words are out we hear it.
There’s a creak as the skylight opens. And then there are cries, screeches.
We go to the closet door, ease it open just in time to see a cat come flying through the skylight. It lands feet-first on the bed and shoots like an arrow down the stairs to where the Scarred Man will no doubt see it.
Noah and I rush out of the closet and toward the skylight, where Rosie still dangles upside down.
“There,” Rosie says. “That ought to be good for some motion.”
Neither of us stop to compliment her. Noah has his hands cupped together and I’m stepping into them. He tosses me upward as if I weigh nothing at all. I grab the ledge and pull myself up just as Noah jumps and catches the ledge on the other side.
We’re both on the roof in seconds. Rosie closes the skylight with a very silent push. Then, for a moment, we lie perfectly still, watching.
I see the Scarred Man come into the bedroom and look from side to side. It’s like he’s starting to wonder if he’s hearing things. Seeing things. It’s his turn to wonder if he’s crazy.
Then he turns. Cradled in his arms is a very scared black cat. I watch the Scarred Man scratch its head gently, soothing it. Calming it.
I’m still holding my breath as he turns again and goes downstairs.