Chapter 3
Soren
“The trash chute?” I snarl into my phone, all anger directed at my dear sister. “I thought I was going in through the service entrance.” That was the plan. I’d seen it with my own two eyes. I never would have agreed to this.
Rosie’s cackle pierces my eardrum. “Change of plans. Merry Christmas, brother.”
“Rosie, this isn’t funny.”
“Relax. You’re just using it until you can get to the service elevator.” The sound of her slurping her soda is extremely off-putting. So is the smell coming from the dumpster.
“Rosie,” I growl, but she only laughs again.
“You need to learn to go with the flow,” she says with barely concealed glee.
“This is absolutely the last scenario where going with the flow is beneficial.” I have to climb through garbage.
“I made sure they don’t have an incinerator.”
I blink at the mangy orange cat who just climbed out from under the dumpster. “Yes. Thank you for ensuring that.”
But despite my protests, I see the problem with the service garage. In the twenty minutes I’ve been sitting here, it hasn’t opened to receive a delivery once. It must be broken. I’m not getting in that way. But surely there was a superior option to this.
I tread slowly to the overflowing dumpster. The sun has gone down, but it’s not fully dark yet. I have only a few minutes to get inside and get changed before shift change.
“You’ve done it before,” she says.
“And you used to play with worms, yet you don’t see me forcing one into your possession.”
“Someone’s testy today. All right, I’ve got to get on the road. It’s four hours to Rome, but I’ll be stuck in holiday traffic and bad weather.” She curses. “I should have driven with Hayden. You sure you won’t need anything?”
I eye the unflattering entry, feeling less sure by the second. But she’s earned this much-needed Christmas break, and I’ll worry about her safety if she delays any longer. “Positive.”
Rosie ends the call, and I sigh, looking both ways before climbing up the side of the dumpster.
I have to be quick. I grab hold of the bars, pulling myself into the chute.
My arm brushes a slimy substance, but I don’t pause to investigate; the sooner I’m out of here, the better.
Using my hands and feet against opposite sidewalls, I hoist myself up the stainless steel ductwork.
A piece of soggy lettuce—I hope—gets stuck to my hand, and I try not to gag. A little farther…
I hit the first opening and breathe a sigh of relief, then immediately regret it as my stomach rolls. It’s so rancid here I can taste it.
I press the rubber flap away from the opening, peeking into the maintenance room.
A woman with a clipboard passes, and I hold my breath, my muscles shaking with the static hold. She pauses three steps away, writing on her paper without a care in the world while I struggle.
My leg is stuck at an awkward angle, and a charley horse threatens. No.
I take slow, deep breaths, and finally, finally, the woman clicks her pen and continues on.
It’s now or never. I kick against the far wall, pulling my body through the window and toppling out of the trash chute, smacking my head on the way down.
Ow.
I’m going to kill Rosie.
Footsteps thump against the concrete floor, and I roll behind a heater in time to avoid detection.
I rip off the shirt with the questionable brown stain and change into my fake uniform. I slip out from behind the machines and drop the old shirt in the wastebasket.
My maintenance uniform and cap blend seamlessly with the uniforms of the other employees as I exit the bottom level. No one bats an eye as I take a step inside the service elevator, my hat riding low to cover my face from cameras.
These elevators aren’t supposed to go to the top floor without authorization from a manager or an authorized key.
Good thing my sister is a genius and was able to code said key after a visit in which she “happened” to bump into the manager. For that, I can forgive her for the awful entry.
My leg bounces with the adrenaline that always comes before a heist. This is my least favorite part. Standing at the brink of uncertainty, hoping I don’t get caught. I have never been, but I’m never truly comfortable until I’m out the door and home free.
I check my watch. It’s five exactly. Go time.
The security cameras in the main hallway and elevator are playing on a loop for the next thirty minutes, with two random scenes from last week making an appearance.
That’s the key to not raising suspicion—show security something they’ve seen before, something different but familiar, comfortable but unremarkable. They won’t notice the loop.
Once in the elevator, I strip the maintenance tags from my uniform and don the mask. Rosie thinks it’s overkill, but one can never be too prepared. And I am prepared. For every scenario. Infrared lasers? Check. High-security vaults? I can break them.
You name it, I can fix the problem, then leave unrecognized. I learned from the best of the worst. Needless to say, this job will be a piece of cake.
The elevator doors open, and I slip out into the darkened corridor, pressing myself to the wall until my eyes fully adjust. I pull out my phone, turning off the private security transmission. To the Hartwells it will look like nothing but a glitch as they sip margaritas on a beach somewhere.
There is another door and key to get into the penthouse. I have the first lock open quickly, but the deadbolt takes me almost forty-five seconds. Too slow. I need to work on that.
After cracking open the door, I step inside.
The penthouse is dark and quiet. I studied the floor plan previously, but the grandeur of the home still impresses me.
The distant city lights filter softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows and bounce off the dozens of mirrors and stainless steel and glass fixtures.
We are so high there is an actual cloud to the east blocking the view of the horizon.
It’s dreamy yet eerie at the same time to be so high, so… alone.
I measure my steps, taking only as many as I need to get to the painting. It’s located in the office, just off the main staircase leading to the four rooms… and the additional living space, and the library. It’s possible I may be jealous.
There’s a squeak—the smallest of sounds as I pass the base of the stairwell—and I freeze, ears perked, waiting for more. But it’s silent for a complete minute.
I continue past the hallway leading to the exercise room, past the observatory and the doors to the balcony.
And finally, the office. The door is cracked, and I catch sight of the painting. It’s a bridge over a lake at dusk, lanterns glittering in the water and stars sparkling in the sky. For the briefest second, it takes me back to a moment in time.
A moment I can’t afford to think about right now.
The painting is hung on the far wall, four different picture lights showcasing it in all its stolen glory.
Only someone this rich could literally shine a light on their misdeeds and not get in trouble.
Except Mr. Hartwell was dumb enough to take a picture with it. His stupidity is my gain.
I push the door open and step inside. It’s darker here than the rest of the penthouse, the lights focused on the painting casting the rest of the room into shadow.
Squeak.
My body turns to stone. Did someone beat me here?
I study the shadows, but there’s nothing to find. I move closer to the painting, then check around the desk. Nothing.
I must have imagined it. The penthouse must be shifting. Old houses do that, but homes hundreds of feet in the air probably shouldn’t.
If there is someone here, I need to move quicker. The building security system will be back online in twenty-one minutes. My window of opportunity is closing.
I retrieve the device from my pocket and run it over the painting, ensuring there isn’t a live feed, but Rosie came through, as always. It’s mine for the taking.
I grab both sides of the painting and heave it off the wall.
The hard part is over.
The door to the room slams shut, and I spin around to see the blade of a knife glinting in the moonlight as a voice speaks from the shadows.
“I’ll take that.”
Or not.