And so he grabbed his tools and slipped out of the car and ambled up the street with his jacket hood concealing his face.The breeze that had swept in worked in his favor, because if anyone caught sight of him, they’d assume he was just protecting himself from the wind.He’d learned long ago that it was the little things that completed the lie.
The grass whispered under his feet as he crept closer to the house.Across the lawn, to the front door.He loitered there a second, feigned a knock on the door, just in case there were any curtain-twitchers across the street.He counted down the seconds, idly glanced in every direction then slipped down the side of the house.Along the fence, round to the rear and completely invisible from the rest of the street.
Time to put this plan into action.
He climbed the trash cans and peered into the garden on the other side.It was a perfectly manicured lawn with rows of plants on either side.What would really make the garden pop was a slide or a swing set, but there would be neither of those in the owner’s future.
He slung a leg over the top, then the other.Hopped down with a grunt.The impact shuddered up his bones but he pushed through it.Mind over matter, he’d always been good at that.On the other side, he edged closer to the French doors that led into the living room.He idly tried the handle but it didn’t budge.
So, all that stood between him and his destination was a lock.
He almost smiled.Locks were no longer an obstacle, not since a man with steady hands and too much time had taught him the basics in a place where learning to open things you weren’t supposed to was a survival skill.
It was a five-lever mortice.The oval keyway gave it away.Five false gates to navigate, but he’d practised on worse in tighter spots with less light and more at stake.
He fished his tools from a jacket pocket and went to work.
The pick slid home.He applied torque and felt for the subtle clicks as the pins yielded.Twelve seconds in and the lock gave way.
He was inside.Now, all he had to do was wait.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ella and Ripley sat in a tiny kitchen opposite Lily Michaels, sister of the recently deceased Rose Michaels.The resemblance was a hammer to the heart; same button nose, same brown hair.Lily’s hair was shorter, her face gaunter, and a mole dotted her chin.Lily was slumped in her chair, drained of everything but nicotine given the empty cigarette packets on the table.She had another one burning right now but she hadn’t taken a drag in over a minute.
‘One second she’s here,’ Lily said, ‘then the next, she’s not.’
‘We’re very sorry,’ Ella said.It was a stock phrase that never helped, but what else was there?She couldn’t exactly whip out her own bereavement journey and measure it against Lily’s.Pain was pain, no matter how someone sliced it.
‘Can you tell us about her?’Ripley tried.Humanizing was textbook, reminded them the body in the morgue had a face, a laugh, a favorite TV show.Probably worked great on paper, but not so much when you were throwing a question at a woman who was one stiff breeze from breaking in half.
Lily glanced at a battered acoustic guitar resting in the corner.‘Music.That’s what we had in common.The house was full of it growing up.Soon as she could work, Rose saved every nickel for a guitar.Never thought she’d do anything with it, then one day she goes and tells me she’d joined a Guns n’ Roses cover band.’
Ella struggled to merge the image with what she’d seen in the crime scene photos: a bubbly ingénue in a sundress and sandals.But Lily seemed to draw strength from the memory of her sister’s inner rock star.Ella let her talk.
‘Pity she wasn’t the singer,’ Ella said.‘Could have been Axl Rose Michaels.’
That earned her a sniffle from Lily.It was preferable to tears.
‘Got gigs too, can you believe it?I mean, nothing huge, but she was out there one night a week living the dream.At least until she had Leo.’
‘Leo?’asked Ripley.
‘Her boy, only just turned two.’
Ella reached for her glass of water then stopped.‘Wait, Rose had a child?’
‘Yup.Gorgeous little thing he is.’
She looked around the room, as though toddler might waddle out from the living room and grab her leg.‘Where is he?’
‘Lives with his dad, always has.’
Ripley leaned forward.‘Rewind a second.Rose had a two-year-old boy?What’s the father’s name?’
‘Jared Novak.Rose lived with him until six months ago, then things got ugly.’
Ella arched a brow.This was a similar story to Amber and her cheat of a partner too.‘What happened?’
