“The only thing we have going for us right now,” he says, “is that no one knows where we are. It’s in your best interest to delay your inevitable twenty-five-to-life for as long as possible, isn’t it?”
What a goddamn douche. “Eat shit,” I say.
He smiles. “Let’s go.”
We approach the house, watching the windows for movement, and I dip down, slipping around the side toward the back.
“There could be other family here,” I tell Hawke. “Does the dad have a girlfriend?”
“A new one every week,” he deadpans. “Stay with me.”
But I don’t. I jet around the back porch, crouch down near a basement window, and peer inside, trying to see past the crud and mud caked all over the glass. I try to pull it open, but it doesn’t give. Whipping off my jacket, I press it against the window and punch, hearing the slight shatter of glass crashing onto the cement floor inside.
I reach in and unlock the window. It’s best to enter this way. Out of view of the road with only a forest to our backs. We are wanted by the cops, after all.
“That’s how you break into houses?” Hawke teases. “The skill…”
I lift up the window and slide my body in, feet first. I jump down into the basement, him following right behind.
I look around, double-checking no else is down here.
He closes the window, and I silence my phone.
“The skill level changes based on the income bracket of whose house you’re robbing, okay?” I reply. “Did you see his yard? He has the type of job that pays daily.”
Hawke snorts, surprising me. Did he actually just express genuine amusement, and not at my expense?
I go on. “And nine times out of ten, people don’t investigate strange noises because they’re lazy. They don’t want to find something because then they’ll have to deal with it.”
It’s true. And sometimes smart. Don’t go looking for trouble unless you have to. The people who die in horror movies are always the nosy ones. I mean, if you live alone and you hear footsteps in the attic, do you think for a second that you’re gonna like what you find? Stay in your room.
We creep up the stairs, Hawke taking the lead and I let him. He inches the door open, and it creaks too loud. I wince. Dude…
I shove him out of the way. Holding the handle, I lean my ear in, hearing the TV somewhere. I open it another inch and listen. Satisfied that I don’t detect any movement, I open the door, quickly scan, and pull him through, closing the door behind us.
She’s probably in her bedroom, which I’m guessing is upstairs.
Looking behind me, I signal for him to follow. I step toward the banister, seeing light from the TV in the living room reflecting on the wall, just making out the top of the back of a head in the recliner.
“She has a couple of uncles,” Hawke murmurs.
Good to know. Lightly, we jog up the stairs and spot a baby blue door with hot pink birds spray-painted on the surface.
I open it, exhaling when I see her pop off the bed. We hurry inside. “Get dressed,” I tell her.
She shoots up, her joggers and T-shirt wrinkled from sleep, and she looks at us both, frozen. “What are you doing here?” she whispers. “I…”
“No time.” I grab some jeans laying across her desk chair and toss them to her. “We need you. Now.”
She holds the pants, her eyes flitting between me and Hawke before looking behind us as if she expected someone else with us.
She hesitates a moment longer and then nods. “Turn around,” she tells Hawke.
“Take your time.” I peer at Tommy through the rearview mirror. “Sit down, talk, relax, and then…say you’re going to the bathroom or something.”
I’ve repeated the process to her four times already, which isn’t like me. But Hawke’s reluctance to use a kid for this makes more sense than it did earlier this morning. I still get nervous going on a job, and I’ve been doing it longer.
Eighty percent of it is just going off a feeling. Is it too noisy? Too quiet? Everyone’s looking at me. They know. Do I create a distraction? Do I just act normal? Is this normal? Is that normal? Am I doing it right? Maybe I should wait.
I learned that whenever possible, blend in. Be there. Talk. Laugh. Drink. Take the time to get out of your damn head. She could be in there for two hours, waiting for the opportunity. There’s no rush.
“Text me every five minutes,” Hawke tells her. “You don’t text, I’m coming in after you.”
I look over at him as he hands her something. “It has to be metal,” he says.
I look down, seeing a small object with a lens. He points to the magnet on the back. “Make sure it sticks and—”