I hear footsteps swishing in the wet grass, and soon two guards amble by on their rounds. I sink into the dark. I level my breath, tensing to slide back into the foliage if they come near, but they walk on, oblivious. Once they’ve rounded the corner, I scan the yard and dart to the house. I have two minutes left for the next part.
The window over the generator is open a crack, as expected, but covered with iron bars. It’s going to be tight, for sure. Good thing I had only a sweet bun for dinner.
I climb up on the generator and put my head to the bars, measuring. Ear to ear, my head just barely goes through. But it’s enough. If I can get my head in, the rest of me will fit.
I don’t mess around; I probably only have about ninety seconds left. I push the window the rest of the way open, get a leg in and then my hips. I breathe out and slide my chest through the cold metal bars, feel a moment of claustrophobia like always, then my head is through and I’m in.
After landing softly on the floor, I take a second to look around. I’m at the corner of the hall. Ahead I see the sitting room, and catch a hint of turquoise light from the pool outside. It’s like a dream, being back here after all this time. I take a steadying breath and creep forward. No one should be here. Mr. and Mrs. Greyhill are in Dubai. The kids are away at boarding school in a cold, neutral country. The servants are asleep in their cottages at the end of the yard.
It’s just me and the ghosts.
Boyboy’s voice crackles through the earpiece. “Hurry, T; you’ve only got forty-five seconds. And that guard almost caught you with your butt hanging out the window.”
I want to tell him to shut up, but resist the urge and keep moving. At the end of the hall, I glance around the corner. The sitting room is empty and still. The security control panel I’m aiming for is attached to the wall ahead. When I reach it, the panel’s screen shows I have thirty-two seconds before the next round of laser scanners sweep the house. If they hit me, a silent alarm will go off immediately. It goes to the guards, who will notify an expensive but highly effective security company staffed with ex–covert ops guys from South Africa. They’ll arrive within minutes. They don’t turn people over to the police, who will let you go for the right price. They take you in a helicopter out over the ocean. What do they do with you? Let’s just say it’s a long swim back.
Thirty seconds.
I look at the screen, hoping the camera is feeding properly. “Well? Can you see it?”
“Yeah. Tilt your head up. Okay.” There’s a pause while I presume Boyboy is doing something productive, and it’s all I can do to not shout at him to hurry. He has to disable the lasers, but he can’t hack into this system; it’s on a closed circuit. Instead he’s going to walk me through shutting it down.
In twenty-five seconds.
“It’s a TX-400. New model,” Boyboy says, after what feels like an eternity. He starts rattling instructions. “Press Alarm on the screen. Now Code. Four, eight, four. Copy. Program . . .”
Boyboy leads me though the sequence, strings of numbers and buttons to push that he whispers in my ear. They sound almost like the prayers I used to fall asleep to when Mama would drag me to church. It’s soothing, in a way. Still, my fingers are shaky, willing the process to go faster. Four seconds. He gives me a last series of numbers, and I punch them in. The timer stops. One second to go.
I let out my breath.
“All clear,” he says.
I’m already moving. This way. Grand staircase. Up and then down the hall and to the left. I don’t even have to try to be quiet. The plush carpet muffles my feet. I slink down the halls, listening hard. For a second I think there’s a noise and I freeze. Through the earpiece I hear the clicking of Boyboy’s fingers on his keypad. I pull it away from my ear and continue listening. After a few seconds of stillness, I put the earpiece back in and creep on.
The hallway walls are covered in photographs of the Greyhills. You can’t help but notice, first of all, that he’s white, she’s Kenyan, and the kids between them are a perfect mix. A boy my age and a girl about Kiki’s. The second thing you notice is the wealth that practically drips off them. Mrs. Greyhill comes from a family of real estate moguls, and Mr. Greyhill’s mining wealth doesn’t hurt. They are posed on boats in pressed coral button-downs. Smiling from Land Cruisers on luxury safaris in the Serengeti. Gold watches, pearls, diamonds on wrists and ears. They are a poster family for what the coastal city is—a mix of colors and nationalities—and what it wants to be: rich.
But I’ve seen it all before. I have no time for them.
I am hunting.
I turn a corner and the dark is absolute. The air is cool and dry, processed. I’m getting closer. There are no more pictures on these walls, just dark wood panels. The farther I go, the more static I can hear through the earpiece. I hope the van isn’t too far away. One more turn, spiraling into the dead heart of the mansion.
And I’m there.