His eyes soften on mine. “You’re here to make sure she isn’t alone. That she has the one person she needs most by her side.”
I absorb Casey’s comment, coming to the slow realisation that he knows about my past and my own accident. I can only conclude that Travis, being his best friend, must have told him. “She needs you,” I say, for some reason not seeming to mind that he knows. It’s easier than having to explain myself.
He nods his agreement. “She does. And for what it’s worth, I won’t leave her side. Not for a second.”
“Good.” I need to leave now before I make a fool of myself and say something nice. “I have to get going. Make sure to tell Grace when she wakes that I’ll be stopping by later to make good on my threat.”
He chuckles lightly. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”
The following night I make the time to issue a search for the report Casey is looking for. I figure Morgan’s house is the best place to start. Granted, it’s probably considered breaking and entering—of a detective’s house no less—but that woman is due some retribution, and who better to give it to her than me? Besides, it’s not really theft if the report belongs to Casey, right? I owe him this. And I’m not apprehensive in the least. I give zero fucks for the law I’m about to break. Sometimes you have to do something a little bad to achieve something good.
Dressed all in black, with black combat pants and boots that keep my footsteps silent, I drive to the address I found on public record for Morgan. I do a slow drive by first. It’s late and dark out, and all the lights in her house are off, but it’s not late enough for her to be home and tucked up in bed. At least I hope. There’s no way to be one hundred percent sure.
I park a few houses down. When I get out of the car I slide the keys inside the tight pocket of my pants. It’s a small pocket situated on the side of my knee, secured with a zip that keeps them from jingling noisily. It’s where I keep my bobby pins. Four of them. Two for the lock and two for spare. They’re already twisted and bent into position, ready for their infiltrating task.
I learned lock-picking at the tender age of ten. Funnily enough, it’s a skill my father taught me. His reasoning? I don’t want my little girl ever being put in a position she can’t get out of.
“Well, sorry, Dad,” I mutter under my breath as I jog toward the lowset red brick house. “This doesn’t really qualify as a position I can’t get out of, but I promise I’m using my powers for good and not for evil.”
There’s a standard timber fence that sections the backyard from the front. When I find the gate, I turn and give the neighbourhood a quick scan as I slide on a pair of black leather gloves. Satisfied I haven’t been seen, I put my hand through the large hole that serves as a handle and check the latch. It’s padlocked, but tonight is my lucky night because it isn’t secured. It’s left hanging off the sliding bolt, seemingly forgotten. I unhook it quietly and glide the bolt across in one smooth motion, opening the gate. I wince when I close it behind me and it creaks.
I can’t help but notice her yard, even in the dark. It can do with some work. The grass is overgrown and brown, and the untrimmed trees are in desperate need of love, but I’m not here to perform landscaping miracles. I need to get in and get out.
My breath comes in short pants as I jog lightly to the back of the house. Christ, I’m a bit unfit, I realise. I take a moment to compose myself while I check the back door. It shows a simple pin and tumbler lock. Sticking one bobby pin in the lock to apply pressure on the barrel, I insert the one I’ve bent into a pick and spend five long damn minutes finding the internal seized pin. After hearing an audible click, I move on to the next pin, and the next, until all five internal pins are released and the lock turns.
I grin as the door opens. “Come to Momma.”
The next morning I wake successful, and still dressed in my ‘robbers’ outfit, having crawled into bed and fallen asleep in the early hours. I’d started off the search in Morgan’s bedroom and it hadn’t lasted long. After rifling through a few drawers, and flicking through some books and papers on her desk, I moved to her bed, lifted the mattress, and there it was. Scanning the pages quickly, a few words popped out at me: autopsy and Daniels. Knowing I had the reports Casey needed, a grin of satisfaction spread across my face as I fled the scene.
With a low chuckle, I roll over on my bed to eyeball the stolen file that I’d slapped on my bedside table last night before crashing.
I’m feeling rather pleased with myself until my gaze encounters Jake. My gleeful chortle dies a quick death.
He’s leaning against my bedroom wall, bare-chested, arms folded, and wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer-briefs and a furious glare.
My gaze drops to the bed where Jake has laid out the black beanie used to cover my pale hair and the black leather gloves that kept my fingerprints from any surface I came in contact with.
Fuck. The sun is streaming in through the blinds, and I know it must be late morning already. Clearly I’d forgotten to set the morning alarm. A rookie mistake. And now I need to get past the gauntlet that is Jake and somehow get the file to Casey before he enacts his own plan to retrieve it.
My eyes flick up, meeting his. “Morning,” I say coolly.
His jaw ticks. “Care to explain?”
Jake’s car keys rest on top of the report file, and I know he’s seen them. Not only had I performed a break and enter last night, I had also added car theft to my criminal repertoire. Explaining that will likely cause my untimely death. I pretend to consider his question for a moment. “Not really.”
Jake pushes off from the wall and moves toward the bed, bringing him closer. “Well you’re going to.”
“No,” I say, casually sliding across the mattress and away from Jake. “Not today. I have things to—”
Putting one knee on the bed, Jake leans across and grabs the back of my long-sleeved shirt in his fist. He yanks and I hear the distinct sound of a riiipppppp.
“My shirt,” I gasp as I fly through the air and land on my back on the mattress with a hard bounce.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your shirt,” he growls, climbing on the bed and straddling my body.
His hard thighs trap me in place, and his hands pin mine to the bed. Moving will likely end with a cracked rib.
Jake leans his face down until I can’t look anywhere but in his eyes. “You can start with why you’re dressed like a thieving little bandit.”
“Because I stole your car.”
“Why did you steal my car?”
“Because I couldn’t get a cab.”
I actually considered calling for a taxi, but then my movements would be on public record, easily placing me at the scene. I’d had to rule it out.
“Stop leading me in circles, Princess, and spit it out. What did you do?”