Joe Bender lives—lived—in a neighborhood on the edge of Peachtree City, a bedroom community mostly known for golf courses and BMWs. The subdivision has cheap houses, cheaper trailers, and plenty of kids desperate for work, which made it pretty much perfect for Michael and Joe to set up shop. The newspapers called us “a blight.” Everyone else called us “trashy.” For Lily and Griff and me? It was home.
Joe lived in one of the few proper houses, a leftover from when the builder thought the neighborhood would grow into more than trailers. I spent a fair amount of time there—sometimes working for my dad, sometimes working for Joe. He lived there for as long as I can remember.
And now the house is empty.
Hart parks the town car one street over and we walk the rest of the way, plenty of time for me to reexamine the cracked sidewalks and abandoned trailers. I haven’t been outside in days. It feels good. Better than good. The air smells like freshly mowed grass and sunshine heats my skin.
“This is it,” I say, nodding my head toward the faded blue house on our left. Hart’s hands go to his sides—adjusting a sports coat that isn’t there?—before trudging up the walk. After a deep breath, I follow.
In some ways, it’s the best the house has ever looked. When Joe lived here, the yard was orange dirt and dead cars. Now . . . well, it’s still orange dirt, but the cars are gone and you can see the front better. The windows are boarded and there’s a “No Trespassing” sign hanging off the sloped front porch.
Hart takes the porch steps two at a time and checks the door. Locked. His hand goes to his pocket, retrieves a palm-sized lock pick. The slender metal arm slides seamlessly into the keyhole and Hart adjusts it with flicks of his wrist until we all hear that unmistakable click.
“Awfully good at that,” Milo says.
Hart shrugs. “Setups like these are easy.”
Except, when he turns the knob, the door won’t budge.
“You have to put your shoulder to it,” I say, stepping closer. “It sticks—”
Hart shoves the door once and it pops open, yawning dusty, hot air over us.
Milo groans. “Don’t you just love field trips?”
I follow Hart over the threshold and into the foyer. Milo tests the light switches, and after a beat, the electricity clicks on. Not that it makes much difference. Even with the overhead lights, the whole place is awash in grays and browns, and somehow this feels even more familiar. Joe used to keep the lights low to conserve energy for the computers and servers.
I shift, swallow. I used to stand right here to get my orders.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
“I’ll check this side,” Milo says and looks at Hart. “You do the bedrooms?”
“No.” I push between them. “I’ll get the bedrooms. You guys take the other side of the house. We did almost all our work in the kitchen and living room. I’ll meet you there after I do my sweep.”
Milo shrugs and follows Hart. The house’s two bedrooms and one bathroom line a narrow hallway to my left. I pick the first door and spend several minutes going through the room, finding nothing. Same deal with the bathroom.
Surprisingly, and thankfully, I’ve never been in the last bedroom until now. It was Joe’s. It even still smells a little like him: old pizza and sweat and a touch of some cologne that always made me gag. I’m so busy thinking about the stench, I don’t even notice the balled-up sleeping bag until I’m already through the door.
My stomach squeezes. Squatter? It’s possible. I toe the edge and the navy-blue bag unravels a bit, revealing the plaid lining. Looks awfully clean for a homeless person, which could mean it belongs to whoever sent me those viruses. Could the same person be hitting Looking Glass’s firewalls as well?
Cold sweat pops up between my shoulder blades and my next thoughts leap to Michael and cling, but that’s stupid. No matter what Hart or Norcut think, my father wouldn’t hang around here for long—definitely not long enough to hit the firewalls. It’s too risky, too obvious.
But someone’s been here. I drag the sleeping bag away from the wall and uncover a box of PowerBars and an empty bottle of water. Someone’s definitely been here and they’ve been staying for a while. The question is why.
I stand, study the single window at the back of the bedroom. It’s next to the folding door closet, and the closer I get, the more I realize something’s hissing.