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 somethingthey’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 Iamprepared. 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… andthe additional living space,andthe 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.
