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DARIO
The back door, the one the Realtor had let him out through, was locked. He pulled at the handle, one that had a keypad on the dial, and cursed the security system that had brought him here to begin with. She should have taken him through one of the sliding doors, those giant masterpieces that had set someone back a fortune. He could have left it open and be jogging up the stairs to the second floor right now. But between the FBI’s number showing up on the screen, and the heat from outside, he’d stepped out and pulled the door firmly to, wanting privacy for the call. Now, he was stuck out here like an idiot.
He cupped his hands and peered in, banging on the glass with his fist. Shielding the glare with his palm, he looked over the great room and kitchen. No sign of them. They were probably still down that stone hall, still in the master suite. He stepped back, to his place by the pool and squinted up at the windows to the master suite, hoping to see one of them cross. Nothing. Unease began to set in. Unlocking his phone, he called Bell’s, growling in frustration when the voicemail picked right up. Thumbing through his contacts, he tried the agent. Same result. Fuck.
They’d have to come out of there eventually. Pass through the living room. Look at the kitchen before crossing to the other side of the house. He returned to the door and leaned against the glass, taking another visual tour of the space. Any minute.
A minute passed. Then two. He pounded on the glass again. Yelled out loud like a lunatic. Finally, he gave up on the back doors and stepped off the back deck, trudging across the manicured grass and through a planter, moving purposely toward the side of the house. Screw it. He’d go around front.
He was stopped by the wall. Ten feet high and covered in ivy, designed to keep intruders out. Another security selling point, one the sales brochure had gushed over and he now vehemently hated. He was rolling up his sleeves, examining the brick obstacle with the practiced eye of an athlete, when he heard the engine.
He stilled, holding his breath and listened, trying to decipher the sounds. It wasn’t a lawnmower. Too powerful for that. There was the pop of a clutch and his irritation bloomed into worry. He knew that sound. Every boy in Louisiana knew the sound of a four-wheeler popped into gear. There was the clatter of a garage door opening, the roll of hinges and metal, and his worry manifested into fear.
There was no good reason for a four-wheeler to be started right now, not unless Mrs. Fucking Realtor planned on a desert tour, and she wouldn’t have done that without getting him. Something was wrong. He backed up and screamed Bell’s name. Ran forward, his dress shoes slipping on the damp grass and hurtled himself at the wall. He grappled with vines and slick soles and made it halfway up before falling. The engine revved, moving, and he screamed her name again, scrambling to his feet and back at the wall, his nails digging into stone, his muscles bunching, pulling, working him up the solid face. He got one hand to the top, finding the iron spikes that helped, giving him a handle. His forearms flexed and he hoisted himself to his waist, getting his first clear view of the front yard.
An open garage door.
The realtor’s minivan, still parked at an angle.
The Lambo, still in place.
The drone of the four-wheeler grew faint.
He pulled himself over, the spikes of the wall catching on and ripping his shirt. He fell down the face of the ivy, hitting the ground, his knee screaming in protest.
Everything was still. Everything looked normal.
Except, of course, everything wasn’t.
THE REALTOR
One of her first lessons was from Tanaka Kangara. They’d grown up together. Like sisters, only Tanaka was black, and she was white, and they were only two months apart in age. Both with moms who didn’t care enough, both with dads they didn’t know. Both liked Jerry Springer after school, hidden under the bench in Lorna Pulley’s sewing shop. Ms. Lorna worked her embroidery machine and ignored them, her ridiculously long legs stretched out, inches from their faces as she pressed down on the pedal, the needles whirring to action above them.
In middle school, they’d been allies, their arms linked in stubborn support as they’d negotiated through the crowded hallways of Vegas’s worst school system. In high school, they’d all but abandoned their mothers, staying out late, dating older men, and scheming over their futures, ones out of the projects and closer to the glam of the Vegas Strip.
Tanaka had tutored her through her struggles with algebra. She’d taught her how to create the perfect smoky eye. She’d taught her how to flirt, how to lie smoother than butter and how to distract a mark from deception. And Tanaka had taught her, when she was begging for her life, how not to die.
