CHAPTER THREE
SYLVIE
It’s in my blood—this talent to thwart boundaries, smash through walls, find the cracks that others overlook. I can break in and out of anywhere.
Except my own cage.
Not that I’ll stop trying. I’d rather spend my days digging a tunnel than crying in my cell.
And maybe dreaming up plans to lock up the guard, but one goal at a time.
It’s eight o’clock, which is earlier than I’d prefer to be doing this, but here we are. At least the owners are at one of their other homes this week.
After I finish adjusting the timestamp on the security system from my handheld PC and ensure the silent alarms are off, I lay out my date outfit, pull on my mask, and turn on the shower in case my date shows up early. Then I head out.
Thankfully, there is very little foot traffic between the Edwardian-era condominium I’m staying in and the mansion I’m on my way to.
The neighborhood is pristine and quiet. It makes it easy to slip out my balcony door, cling to the shadows, and dash between various historic rooftops, trees, and property walls on the hilly terrain.
The biggest challenge is scaling the brick siding of the residence without anyone noticing because it’s angled toward a street.
The air is cool, even though my skin is covered in thermal ski wear, but the wind is whipping by with enough force that it whistles while burrowing into my bones.
There’s a yeast-and-coffee aroma that is enticing, but it only comes on the passing breeze.
It’s swiftly washed away by salt and sea and lavender.
Ignoring the chill and the incongruent scents, I grip the brick ledge above my head and climb about fifteen feet to reach the level of my destination.
My fingers and toes are so accustomed to the strain that the ache most people would encounter never comes.
With my pulse chanting a rhythm of encouragement, I swing my leg up to hook my knee onto a railing.
It has me hanging upside down on the side of the home for a beat, but I quickly boost myself, like I used to on the bars in gymnastics, and dismount onto the elevated terrace.
Not wasting any time, I stoop before the sloped window under a canopy of inky clouds. The moon is practically nonexistent, and very few stars are visible in the city. All of that adds to the natural shrouding, though the buzz of a San Francisco evening is a heartbeat away.
Sirens and horns and the gravelly whir of wheels against the bricks of the iconic crooked street meld with the howling wind and distant music to create a sort of white-noise background while I work.
Pandemonium calms my nerves. Quiet can be far more off-putting because every bump and clatter becomes deafening.
Here, my breaths aren’t anything to take note of.
I can be invisible right out in the open.
Using a putty knife, I glide it into the seam, patiently working it back and forth until I feel it popping the lock mechanism.
I repeat on the other side before leveraging the knife to force it open and adhering a suction cup to the glass to drag it up.
It swings toward me, and I slide into the residence.
The mansion is exquisite. High ceilings.
Open floor plan. Rustic, industrial charm.
There’s no need for a tour though. I’ve already studied the blueprint, so I swiftly dash across the hardwood planks to the office.
It’s dark, but I know what I’m looking for.
Elliot Spencer is in his early fifties, obscenely wealthy, social, and secretive, so my recon was unsurprising.
His close friend is CEO of a company that specializes in safes and other security measures.
You’d think that would make this place a fortress, but all it did was expedite my findings.
Cracking the security system was a breeze, and the desk purchased from that company with a safe behind a false drawer is where I’m headed.
Since I know the make and model, I also have a small combination-recovery tool that will give me the code minutes after I hook it up.
It takes about thirty seconds to locate the safe and another minute to unscrew the keypad and adhere the wires to the recovery tool.
The hardest part is waiting for the device to work its magic.
I resist the urge to scout this place for treasures.
I spotted a Rembrandt on the way in, so I’m sure there are others I’d die to have in my possession.
That’s not why I’m here though, and it will only put the entire job at risk.
Greed equals ruin.
The minutes tick by, and a bead of sweat rolls down my spine. If I were scavenging for other loot, I’d be riding a high. But idling is madness. The ski wear is suffocating. When I’m about three breaths from an internal freak-out, the code is found.
Thank the heavens.
With the new combination, I screw the keypad back on, punch it in to open the safe, take the USB-based hardware authentication device inside, and leave a dummy in its place, locking everything back up.
Then I get the hell out of there.
I close the window, so there’s little notice that anyone entered, though I only relock one side.
Severe winds whipped through the area this afternoon, which I’m using to my advantage.
The weather will account for the security cameras on several homes being wiped out, but the sensor on the window will still register that it was unlocked, which is what my changing the timestamp was for.
It’s not just covering my tracks. It’s painting a believable story that the owners will piece together naturally to dismiss their concerns.
I break off a small branch from a hovering tree and wedge the stick into the seam so it appears as though that were the culprit for forcing the lock open. It’s a stretch as far as logic goes, but since they won’t find anything stolen, it shouldn’t be an issue they investigate beyond that.
A breath of relief flows out of me as I scale the side of the brick home and jump to an adjacent property wall, grateful to be on the other side of the job.
Three erratic heartbeats later, as I’m climbing to a roof, two couples walk by, blathering about their days.
That’s what I get for a half second of internal celebration.
My stomach wrenches. I smash myself flatter against a ridge of the home, seeking coverage from the chimney and praying they don’t glance up.
I barely breathe, but that ache I avoided on the way over seizes my joints in the chilly temperature.
Another group makes a ruckus in a private yard, and despite the cold, they seem to be settling in.
Fuck.
I can’t stay up here forever. Not only will my grip eventually give, but I’m expected to be dressed and ready for dinner in twenty minutes.
Once I see that they’re focused on something in the other direction, I curl myself around the chimney, scurry to the other side of the rooftop, and drop to another property wall.
From there, I dash back the way I came and return to the condo balcony.
Hopefully, no one caught sight of me, but even if they did, that’s what all the security precautions were for.
As soon as I step inside, my phone vibrates on the bed. I don’t have time to take it, but it’s my sister, Flora, so I’m not sure I can afford to send her to voicemail. She’s relentless. And that’s the last thing I need tonight.
Still, I make her wait while I remove my shoes, gloves, and mask.
“Hey.” I keep my tone hushed and peer out the window to gauge whether anyone followed my path. “I can’t chat right now. I’m working.”
“Oh, I hear water.” Absolutely oblivious to the inconvenience chatting on a job poses, she doesn’t skip a beat. “I thought you had a date with the guy Mom had set you up with.”
“That too. I’m staying in his aunt’s condo, and she’s probably questioning my absurdly long shower. He’ll be here to pick me up in twenty minutes. Another reason why I need to go.”
I would be irritated about the prospect of dinner with a guy I had nothing in common with, but it won me the perfect accommodations.
And with the timestamp in the Spencers’ mansion altered to read nine thirty for that window opening, that’s my alibi should anything go wrong.
Not that I intend to share that with her.
“Busy.” The tapping of Flora’s manicured nail against what I’m assuming is a full wineglass counts the ticking seconds. “But you’re almost done with this mess, right? Home stretch?”
That’s not how these things work, but she’s never wanted to understand the ins and outs, and we can hope for the best.
“Home stretch. Sure.” I step into the en suite, deciding to save time by touching up my makeup before I rinse off in the shower. I’ll just avoid getting my face wet. “That’s a good way to look at it.”
A noisy swallow precedes her concern. “And how would you look at it?”
Like I trusted the wrong people and have no one to bail me out of this.
Like everyone else fucked up, and, yes, I fucked up, too, but I’m the only one who will pay the price.
Like one way or another, this is a jump-off-a-cliff ending I’m being forced to catapult into, but I’m out of options.
I don’t say any of that because she’ll feel guilty.
Maybe she should, but I can’t punish her forever.
Instead, I feather my eyeliner above my lashes and relay the sentiment in a simpler way. “This is my reality. I’m trying my hardest not to end up like Dad, but realizing that’s unlikely.”
A wounded bleat emanates through the phone. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
I’m not sure what to do with that or the lump clogging my throat because I hate her so much sometimes, but I love her enough to carry this for both of us.