Chapter 24
Jansen
Breaking into Bryce’s apartment is just as easy the second time as it was the first. The only difference is that I get to do it in the afternoon, and I had to get permission from both RJ and Walker to come.
He’s out doing whatever unemployed pedophile snitches do during daylight hours, and I can’t say I’m too curious about what that might be.
The only difficult part of this plan is finding a place to stash myself for later.
There’s a deep cabinet under the kitchen island, with a single new-looking muffin tin in it and nothing else, so I figure that will work for tonight. That decided, I crawl across the bedroom floor so I can avoid the framed photo Clara said holds a camera, and duck into his closet.
I barely hold back a scoff. I know Clara said he was particular, but I hadn’t spent enough time last visit looking at exactly what that meant—the man has a tool to evenly space his shirts on the rod, and a different one to space his shoes on the rack. It’s absurd.
Emma’s waiting out front to tell me if he’s coming, but still I hurry, pulling up the insoles of each of his shoes and stashing a carefully cushioned Airtag under the right foot, and just some regular semi-dense foam under the left.
We wouldn’t want the guy to notice that he’s carrying around an extra bit of technology every day.
Sadly, I’m going to have to wait until he’s passed out to tag the shoes he’s wearing today.
Next, I hide a few audio recorders around the apartment. They’re battery powered, and don’t transmit, so I’ll have to come back weekly to switch them out, but it’s better than nothing. He’s getting information from somewhere, and it’s nowhere we know to look.
Hopefully, this will help.
Last, I search the place for a burner phone.
After forty-five minutes of looking, it’s obvious he either doesn’t keep it here, he took it with him when he went out, or he doesn’t even have one.
The last one seems unlikely, though, with the photos he’s sent.
I sprawl across a destroyed but carefully restitched couch, just reveling in being outside of Black, while riding the whisper of a buzz I’m getting from breaking in.
I’m still not sold on the drugs. But I’m going to keep taking them.
The sheer volume of freakout that was directed at me for simply visiting the roof of Black was more than enough of a reminder of what my last episode cost the people I care about.
What it cost me. I lost their trust. I didn’t mean to, but still.
There it is. And that hurts more than the still-healing hole inside me.
Being trustworthy hasn’t ever been my strong suit, I’ve come to realize.
I’ve tried to listen, to follow directions, but the second my brain gets a little fuzzy, all rule following disappears.
It doesn’t matter that the people giving me directions have my best interests at heart or may even hold my life in their hands. The buzz beats all common sense.
And I don’t want to live like that anymore. If the people who know me best in the world can’t trust me, then I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do to fix it. And my meds are just the start.
My phone buzzes with Emma’s heads up, her promise to stall the elevator a blessing, so I make the quickest stop in the bathroom, then fold myself into the cabinet, my phone set to silent.
The hours are long in the cramped space, a stupid phone game barely keeping me from popping out to stop the boredom, but eventually, the apartment falls silent. But I’m good, and I stay in the cabinet, waiting another hour just in case.
I can be good. I can.
Finally, it’s been long enough for me to crack open the cabinet and slink out, my soft-soled shoes silent on the fake wood floors.
Inching into the bedroom, I find the space just as dark as the living room, the only light from a white noise machine.
Sprawled out, taking up the entire bed, lies Bryce, and it just adds another tally on the I-hate-this-man-and-don’t-understand-how-Clara-ever-put-up-with-him side of the ledger.
I’d be lying if I said there were any tallies on the other side.
The man is scum.
Ignoring the sleeping slug, I crawl back to the closet and find the last pair of shoes.
This pair fights me, the glue holding the insole down built for the jungle.
Frustrated, I yank as hard as I can, and the sole flies away from the shoe, wholly detaching with a sound like a foam-filled zipper.
Bryce rolls, his eyes blinking open in the dark, and I stop breathing.
I risk turning my newly darkened head just enough so I can see him out of the corner of my eye, hoping that the dark color hides me in the depths of his closet.
Clara had mentioned he was a light sleeper. Which is why I broke in during the day instead of at night. This way, the only chance of him hearing me was on the way out. Or at least, that was the plan.
I don’t move, and he doesn’t either.
For what seems like an eternity, I stay frozen, until finally, he groans and flops onto his other side.
I want to sigh in relief, but that’s a rookie mistake, so I keep still for another fifteen minutes, my legs cramping and my heart thundering, my diaphragm aching, before I finish stashing the tracker. Then, I army crawl out of his room, the pain in my torso the worst it’s been in weeks.
That sigh of relief doesn’t come until I’m standing in the icy night air, the door to the jackass’s car open in front of me, another Airtag tucked under the driver’s seat.
Digging around, I find the burner phone, and with the tech RJ got me, I get that bad boy set up, so he has access to whatever communications Bryce is making there.
Practically giddy, I hop on a bus to bring me back across campus, my first actually useful move in this gig accomplished.
I’m going to be trustworthy, while still being one hell of a thief—starting right now.