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“I rescued you.”

Nothing.

“I bought you a pumpkin sweater.”

His tail moves once.

“Exactly. We're even.”

I reach over and scratch behind his ear.

“I’ll be back soon.”

I can’t stand his sad eyes, so I grab the iPad and put on Scooby-Doo. As soon as I put it in his car seat, he’s entranced.

Even when I get out of the car, he doesn’t notice.

“Replaced by Scooby.” I shake my head as I press the key fob, locking the doors.

Inhaling a breath of cold air, I turn my attention to his house.

His truck is gone. No lights are on. Which means I'm reasonably confident he's not home. Reasonably.

I adjust my baseball cap and start walking. No wig tonight. Damn thing is itchy. Plus Roman recognizes me anyway.

I take the long way around the block, then cautiously approach the back of his house, checking for cameras.

A small patio is in front of the sliding door. A couple of chairs sit on it. They look like they came with the rental. Nothing about them screams Roman.

I try the door. It’s locked.

“Good job, Hot Lips,” I whisper.

At least one of us takes home security seriously.

I move to the side door near the garage. I peek through the small window, but can’t see much.

I try the handle. It’s locked, too.

Damn.

I stare at the door. This would be easier if I knew how to pick locks.

Maybe I should learn. That feels like a useful life skill.

I make a mental note.

Watch lock-picking videos.

YouTube taught me how to stitch a hitman. Surely it can teach me how to break into his house.

In the distance, I hear an engine.

I press myself against the siding, listening intently. The sound grows closer… and closer.

I stay put, listening as the garage door rises.

Shit. He’s home.