He cut through the freshly trimmed grass. When he reached the fence, he searched for the X he’d spray painted on his first reconnaissance to mark the backyard. The last thing he wanted to do in the dark was leap into the wrong yard.
He found the X and pressed himself to the fence. It was six feet high and easy for him, with his height, to peer over. He surveyed the neighboring residences. Both were dark. He had to look three houses down to his left before he saw light spilling from the interior. It looked to be an early-to-bed crowd around here, for which he was grateful.
Jarocki’s place was more active. Zo? was in the kitchen, cooking from the look of things. Windows glowed in one of the bedrooms, but the drapes were drawn. Zo?’s activity in the kitchen meant he had to keep to the right side of the house to remain hidden.
He didn’t have to worry about security lighting. He’d checked out that situation during his recon. The man staying with Zo? had none on his property, although his neighbors did. Beck had tested the range by waving a branch at various points along the rear fence until he found the limits of the sensors. As long as he kept within a specific zone, he wouldn’t trip them.
He edged over to the right side of the fence where it intersected with the neighbor’s property, and climbed over in a single, deft move. He dropped to a crouch and paused, watching Zo? work. She was at the sink overlooking the backyard. If she looked up or caught movement, it would be game over for him. He waited until she turned away, then dashed forward.
He went to his entry point—a sliding door—and dropped to his knees. It opened into the master bedroom, from the looks of it. He loved sliding doors. They used lock technology a half step up from a filing cabinet. He brought out his pick and worked the catch, which yielded to him in a matter of moments. He allowed himself a smile before slipping inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cooking wasn’t one of Zo?’s things. It wasn’t that she was bad at it, she just didn’t have the inclination. Meals for her had always been simple affairs—salads and things she could buy premade. This was a by-product of college life, where there had been little to no time between classes and internships to invest in meal preparation, nor any once she’d started the long shifts at the mall after she’d taken the security job. Her enforced detention meant she had a lot of time on her hands. Since Jarocki was putting a roof over her head, the least she could do was make him a decent meal.
She was making beef-and-pork raviolis in a vodka sauce. It wasn’t particularly adventurous, but she was making it all from scratch. She’d looked up a recipe on the Food Network and had gotten Greening to bring the ingredients. She’d thought making pasta was going to be a fast and straightforward affair, but it wasn’t proving to be as simple as the recipe implied. Her first attempts at making the dough, let alone constructing the raviolis themselves, hadn’t passed muster, but she persevered until she had something that bordered on competent. However, competence had taken time. It was close to midnight. She had the salad and the vodka sauce done. All she needed to do was put the raviolis on to boil.
She left the vodka sauce on simmer and went to Jarocki’s bedroom office. It was the smallest of the rooms in the house. He could have had any one he pleased, but he stuck to his childhood room. She found him at work on his laptop.
She leaned against the doorway. “Dinner will be ready in about five minutes.”
Jarocki checked his watch. “More like a midnight feast.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think making pasta from scratch would take so long.”
“It’s OK. I had work to do. I’m just finishing up now, so perfect timing.”
She returned to the kitchen and put the raviolis in the boiling water. They sank to the bottom of the pan. When they were done, they’d all float to the top. She liked this communication method between food and chef.
This was nice. She found cooking relaxing. Her world was in turmoil and still she could find peace among it all. Jarocki had been telling her for months to find hobbies and interests that brought her pleasure and emotional nourishment, but she’d resisted because she hadn’t seen the point. If she was being honest, she’d never taken the time to find leisure pursuits. Her self-defense classes provided her with a sense of accomplishment but offered no relaxation. She’d always claimed that hitting the clubs and bars, getting wrecked, and seeing who’d pick her up was her release valve. It wasn’t. She put herself out there with no idea how the night would end, which was its own form of stress.
She smiled as the raviolis, good to their word, all rose to the top of the water. Maybe cooking would become her next thing.
“Two minutes,” she called out and received a grunt in reply.
She drained the raviolis and dumped them in the vodka sauce, letting them soak it up for a minute or two before dishing them up.
“C’mon, Doctor. It’s going on the table.”