Which makes me suspicious.
And also eager. Because if I skirted the woods, I could run around to the rear of the house and use the rose trellis to climb onto the back porch roof. According to the last email I saw between Barton & Moore and Bay, the second-floor windows still don’t have functioning alarms. If I jimmied the lock, I could sneak into the house and install the sniffer without interruption. It would be a round of brilliant good luck.
Then again, who’s to say someone wouldn’t come home and catch me? The idea turns my blood slushy. That won’t work.
Screw it. I’m going. I pull my hoodie tight over my hair. With one eye on the house across the street, I follow the tree line around until I’m in the Bays’ backyard. Still half in the trees, I wait, watch. There’s nothing. The house is completely still. If I’m going to do this, I better do it now.
Breaking from the trees, I hustle across the lawn, heading for the rose trellis. I thread my hands through the prickly vines and test the wooden frame’s sturdiness. I think it will hold. I hope it will hold.
Hoisting one foot up, I jam it into the space where wooden slats are nailed together and start climbing. Hand over hand. I make it to the roof’s edge in less than fifteen seconds and heave myself up, rolling to my feet, ready to pry the window open.
Except I don’t need to. The window is cracked open.
Another squeeze of unease. This is too easy. Something’s up. I wait another beat, listening for any sounds coming from inside or out. There’s nothing. So why do I feel watched?
I stare hard into the trees behind me, look carefully to either side. Nothing. I’m alone and paranoid.
Screw it. I’m going. I shove the window farther open and slide through, hitting the carpet with both feet. Again, there’s nothing. The house is completely quiet.
Get in. Get out. Get in. Get out. I cross the room and crack the door. The hallway is empty. I edge forward, glance around. The Bays’ upstairs is open to the downstairs, and from my position in the upper hallway, I can easily see the floor below. Kitchen looks clear . . . living room directly below looks clear . . . I ease to the handrail, craning over the side to peer down at the keypad near the front door. No flashing lights.
It’s not on. I dash for the stairs, feet soundless on the thick carpeting. Down the first five, turn on the landing, down another five. Wait.
Still nothing.
I take a deep breath and hustle across the main living room. Thanks to the party, I know exactly which door off the hallway to pick. The handle turns noiselessly in my hand and I’m in.
Bay’s study. It smells like orange cleanser and polished wood. The curtains are drawn and it takes me a moment to locate his BlackBerry charging station in the shadows. It’s tucked to one side of the cherrywood desk, power cord neatly fed through a small hole in the desk’s shiny top. Turning the charger upside down, I pop off the cradle’s bottom, then by pushing the charging pins out, I am able to slide the sniffer in, attaching the charging pins to the back of it. Now, whenever Bay puts his phone on charge, the phone will connect with the sniffer and I’ll get a direct feed of his texts, emails, and pictures.
Resecuring the bottom, I replace the charging station, wipe my fingerprints, and glance around the room. It’s really tempting to do a little digging. Really tempting.
Until I hear a thump.
It’s so muffled I almost miss it, but my heart rides right into my throat, and for a terrible moment, I’m frozen.
Get out. Get. Out. I fling myself at the study door, peer outside. Nothing. I’m just spazzing. There’s a good reason I stay on the other side of the computer. I can’t handle this stress. Time to blow this Popsicle stand.
I’m easing my way up the last steps when I hear it again. Another thump.
Slowly, I turn, see a shadow slide past one of the open doors farther down the hallway.
I am not alone.
11
I spin around, running for the window and trying to be quiet. I’m just not quiet enough. It’s not that I hear someone behind me.
I just somehow know he’s there.
My heart is behind my teeth now, but I have just enough brain cells left to ease the window down with sleeve-covered hands and run for it.
Or, rather, slide for it.
I push my way down the roof until my feet are dangling off the side, twist, and grab onto the rose trellis. Then I scramble. My feet hit the ground and, just as they do, I hear the window above scrape open.
I freeze, shoulders pressed against the siding. Whoever was down the hallway is now above me on the roof. I can’t run the way I came because it would take me directly across the yard. I’d be seen. Can’t stay here though. I can’t—my eyes latch onto the woods. That’ll work. I’ll run for the woods. If I go around the side of the house, I can reach the trees. They’ll provide coverage.