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I peel up the doormat while Beckett tries the window. I see him shake his head from the corner of my eye. Both of our hands touch the potted plant by the wicker furniture at the same time, and I let him pick it up to check—

Bingo.

One order of frozen doorkey to-go, please.

He points the key at me. “Do not use fifty knives. That gave me trypophobia.”

Fine with me.

I'll just use every sharp, pointy thing in the house if the urge comes up. I'm grinning like hell under the mask, but he can't see my expression. Maybe he takes my silence as “okee-dokee.”

The key turns, and the door swings open into the kitchen without a sound. He digs a mini-flashlight out of his cargo pants and clicks it on, sweeping it over the floor so we see where we’re going. Fridge. Dishwasher. Table.

Dog bowl.

I open the fridge as quietly as possible, moving around groceries. The milk’s expired. The juice is off-brand.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, at the same time tiny nails scamper across wood farther up ahead.

Hot dogs work!

They’re slimy when I slide my hand into the plastic baggie and pull one out, clicking my tongue. A tiny fluffy dog zips around the corner, slipping on its back paws, before running up to me. Full force. Little nails tap-dance between the floor and my calf as it pants loudly. I drop the hot dog into its mouth, crouching to pet the soft, floppy ears.

“Good doggy,” I whisper. “I want to take you home.”

“We’re not stealing a dog.”

Well, duh.

Doesn’t change the fact that I want to.

I drop the rest of the gross hot dogs on the kitchen floor and step over the dog. The giant, old-fashioned Bic lighter grabs my attention—sparkly and shiny on the table; I pocket it and follow Beckett up the stairs.

There are pictures all along the walls: some dude with a woman with curly, blonde hair. The same dude with a woman with shorter, curlier brown hair. The next woman has curly black hair. He definitely has a type.

Kudos, I guess.

My type used to bounce around like crazy: quiet nerd who was kinky in the bedroom, soft-top jock, party-boy who knew how to roll the best blunts. But now it's Beckett, plain and simple.

He turns around when I slam into his back hard enough to almost put me back down the stairs—he grabs my wrist before my left foot slips off the landing. When I’m on solid ground, he stalks down the hall to the single, large bedroom with the open door.

It’s not as dark as usual in here. The television is still on, playing reruns of some show on HBO that kind-of-sort-of looks like porn. I tilt my head to the side, fully invested. Two women are in bed with one dude, and everyone’s naked. I’m not sure if he can breathe, but the volume’s muted, so it doesn’t really matter anyway.

Beckett snaps his fingers in front of my mask, and I look away from the screen.

“This is why you end up in trouble,” he says quietly. “Pay attention.”

How can he be super interesting and super boring all at the same time?

Rolling my eyes, I shrug.

But the second he slides off his belt, none of it matters. My pulse jumps low in my stomach, and a shiver crawls up my spine. I watch him slide onto the bed, straddling the sleeping dude. I take one step closer on instinct.

The lighter bumps against my outer thigh.

“What if we set him on fire?” I whisper.

Beckett glances over his shoulder at me as he wraps the belt around his hand. “No.”