I wait until his breathing gets nice and steady before I slip out of bed.
I’m pretty quiet when I want to be. He barely even stirs, but I still stand like a statue near the door for almost ten minutes before I slip out into the hall. I wait again, listening carefully, making sure he’s completely out.
All’s quiet in the Sarkissian household.
I march grimly over to his office door. Once again, I’m being dumb and careless, but I can’t help myself.
That folder was important, and I want to read it.
Once I get something in my head, I can’t get it back out again, at least until I indulge whatever overwhelming impulse has grabbed hold of me.
Right now, it’s whatever he’s trying to hide.
The lock on his office door is a Schlage Primus. That poses a challenge. The thing is, standard locks on normal houses are basically worthless to anyone who knows how to use a tension bar. I can open the average suburban house in like ten seconds if I really want to.
But the Schlage Primus is on another level. It has a dual-locking mechanism with traditional pins plus a sidebar with finger pins, meaning I need to be very careful. Once I slip my tension bar in the top, I use my favorite pick to slowly move in and out, wiggling up and down, getting a feel for the pins as they click into place. It’s painstaking and very delicate work, and after a minute, I get completely absorbed.
This is why I love thieving. It’s not the stealing—although that part is fun too—but the challenge. I feel alive pulling off a difficult job like this, and it reminds me that I’m not some pathetic, helpless loser. I’m smart and clever, and I can pull this off.
After raking the lock for nearly ten minutes, I feel the tumblers snap into place. I turn with the tension bar, and the lock opens with a satisfying click.
“Fuck yeah,” I whisper, sweating slightly and grinning like a maniac. Alexan’s office door swings open. My heart’s pounding with excitement, and everything sharpens into focus. The darkness is thinner, and I move with more confidence as I slip forward toward his desk.
The folder was left out right beside his keyboard. I sink down into his comfortable office chair and flip it open. I turn on my phone’s flashlight and scan the front page, excitement slowly turning to dread.
It’s Jeremy Fong. Approximate age thirty-nine. Born to Taiwanese parents. Raised in London. Undergrad at Oxford, MBA at Wharton. A long list of known associates, many with names like Starscream, Lionnessa, Screwn, Reggis. Hacker pseudonyms, if I had to guess. Otherwise, there’s not much personal info on my good friend.
But it’s the pages after that are more interesting. Whoever compiled this dossier was really thorough. Fong’s cyber company owns an office park out in the suburbs, and they went all out on security. I obsess over the details, memorizing floor plans, whispering the names of alarm systems, mostly because this is what my brother trained me for.
This is everything a competent heistman would need to pull off a job.
There’s a noise in the hallway. My feet go cold as I turn off my phone’s flashlight. I sit in the darkness, not moving, not breathing. But I hear the sound again.
Definitely footsteps.
“Shit,” I whisper, putting the folder back. I look around desperately for a place to hide and end up scurrying over to the closet. Lucky me, it’s decently big and mostly empty.
The office door creaks open.
I risk peeking through the slit in the folding doors. It’s definitely Alexan. He shuffles over to where I was just sitting and frowns down at his desk. My chest is hammering, and my guts are filled with fluttering nerves, but he only stares and stares until he turns like he’s going to head back to bed.
Relief floods me.
Until he hesitates, looks back, and touches the chair.
“Still warm,” he murmurs.
Shit. Shit! How the hell did he think of that?
Fear lances into me. I don’t know what Alexan will do if he catches me. He’s never been violent with me, but there’s a dark streak in him, and he did make it clear that he didn’t want me in here. Obviously, that meant less than nothing, but still. He might be pretty pissed.
He looks around the room, a smile on his lips.
“I know you’re in here,” he says. He doesn’t move, clearly waiting for me to come out.
Screw that.
“There’s no reason to keep hiding, little thief. You can’t help yourself, can you? That locked door is like your drug. I should’ve known better.” He listens carefully, head cocked to the side.
I take tiny, silent breaths, just like my brother taught me.
“Alright, if that’s how you want to play it.” He grabs the dossier and tucks it under his arm. “I’ll put this somewhere you won’t find it. Next time, respect my privacy.”
Then he’s gone. He moves out of my line of sight. I can’t see him through the slit, even when I move. I wait a few beats and start thinking that maybe I got away with it. I can sneak downstairs, pretend like I went for a walk or something—
The door rips open.
I yelp, throwing myself backward, and my head bashes against the wall.
