I open some drawers, ignoring the one with all of the lacy undergarments. I mean, I didn’tignoreit, but for the sake of privacy, I’m not going to mention any details about it. I thumb through some books on her nightstand,Pride and Prejudice, The Runaway Jury,andThese is my Words.Interesting assortment—nothing new or contemporary. I don’t know what that says about her.
Above her bed, she has a giant picture of the periodic table. Not something hokey. It’s like an actual piece of artwork that someone did. I smile, thinking about how excited she must’ve been when she found it.
Her bedspread is unmade, and there’s a pile of shoes in every corner of her room, stacks of mail on her counters, and chocolate wrappers on her nightstand. Other than that, the room is pretty clean. If the shopping bag were here, I’d see it.
I tiptoe past her bathroom door. Luckily for me, it’s not wide open. I poke around her closet but find nothing. That’s when she shuts off the shower and does one big finish of the song.
“In a one horse oh-pen sleighhhhhhhh!” Her voice cracks as she belts out the last note, and it’s all I can do to hold in my laughter. Then the shower door opens, and I panic. Why am I standing in the middle of her room enjoying her awful rendition of “Jingle Bells” when I should be moving?
I don’t have time to get out. Instead, I hide behind the open closet door just as she walks into her bedroom. She went from the shower to her room in lightning speed. Doesn’t she take a minute to dry off? My eyes go wide. Maybe she didn’t take a minute to dry off. Maybe she’s one of those people who likes to air dry, dripping water all over her floor.
If that’s the case, that means Lacee’s naked.
I swallow.
I’m not sure I can handle naked Lacee right now.
It’s not like I can see anything through the door, but the mission feels more dangerous now. I’m an intruder, and she’s in a vulnerable state. That’s a bad combination.
Her footsteps walk over to the closet, and I hold my breath even though all I want to do is take in her coconut-smelling shampoo that reminds me of my home in Kauai. It seems like she made it to Bath and Body Works, after all.
Lacee thumbs through a bazillion hangers until she finally finds something she likes. I’m already planning what I’ll do if she shuts the closet door when she’s done. I’ll just tackle her, keeping my eyes pointed at the ceiling.
No, wait.
Tackling her while she’s naked is a terrible idea. That’s way too much skin-to-skin contact. What kind of field officer am I? Usually, I’m much better at thinking on the fly.
The next song begins playing, and I can tell by the way she’s hitting her hip into the closet door that this song is a favorite. I scoot my feet into first position—don’t ask me how I know ballet positions—and suck in as much as possible, making myself small. The door bangs against me with each beat of the song. And now Lacee’s transferred her voice into some low, twangy sound mimicking Elvis Presley.
It’s cute, and I find myself smiling.
After a few seconds, the bed squeaks as if she sat on the edge of the mattress. I tilt my head so I can see around the door. I get a glimpse of her shorts and oversized brown t-shirt. She lifts her right leg and rubs a gallon of lotion over it as if dry skin is her biggest problem in life. Then she repeats the same thing on her left leg.
Am I staring at her legs while she’s doing this whole lotion thing? No, I’m merely assessing the situation. It’s part of my job—take in information and examine it. I’m in the examination phase right now.
Once she’s done with the lotion, she makes her way to the bathroom. I take that moment to leap across her bed in a ninja somersault and escape from her room. I glance around quickly one last time, looking for the shopping bag. Then I climb out her living room window.
Looks like I need to come up with a new plan to get the computer chip back because this one didn’t work.
EIGHT
PARK
Plan B:Travel to Seattle, Washington and recover the computer chip mid-flight from Lacee’s carry-on suitcase.
I know the scarf for her mom is in her carry-on because Lacee doesn’t have any other pieces of luggage with her. And from my recon all evening—binoculars through her apartment windows—I know she packed five small presents into her suitcase. One of those gifts is definitely the scarf with the computer chip stuck to the tag.
I hang back in the TSA line at the Boston Logan International Airport, not letting Lacee see me. But I’m watching her.
She’s more dressed up tonight than she was this morning. She’s in a white t-shirt with a deep-green bomber jacket, and I wonder if the jacket is because she gets cold on airplanes or if she just likes the look of it. She’s got black jeans on with silver buttons that line the front. But the best part, she’s wearing Sorel snow boots like she might encounter a snowstorm mid-flight. Or maybe she just likes the look of that too. I’ve never wondered this much about a woman’s outfit choice before. But when it comes to Lacee, I find myself speculating about all sorts of things.
She stands in the security line, digging inside a small shoulder purse slung over her chest. A rolling suitcase with an enormous water bottle resting on top of it leans against her legs. The line in front of her moves forward, but she doesn’t notice. She’s still tunneling through her purse like a coal miner, pulling out item after item. How does she have so much stuff in there? Is it Mary Poppins’s magical bag? The gap between her and the line in front grows bigger. The person behind her taps on her shoulder, signaling for her to move up. Her eyes widen, and she panics. Her hand jerks out of the small purse, sending her passport, boarding pass, and a few other things I can’t identify from this distance flying out of the bag and into the air.
My lips twitch as I watch her.
She scrambles, bumping into her suitcase and knocking over her metal water bottle. It clangs against the ground as it rolls away. Her forearm presses against her body, trying to hold all of her stuff, but items keep falling. She shoots an apologetic expression to the people around her as she shoves things back into her purse. Then she drops to the floor—I think she might be crawling. I stand up straighter to get a better view through the crowd.
Yep, she’s crawling on the airport floor, reaching between people’s legs to grab everything.
