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Though I try to stop it, this time a sliver of worry surges into me.
Skye wouldn’t purposefully avoid me. Would she? Sure, she didn’t come this morning, but that was her choice. She chose to give up a climax rather than answer my question.
It’s on her.
Again the worry…
“Damn,” I say aloud. I twist her doorknob. It’s locked, of course, but she doesn’t have a deadbolt.
I should have installed one for her before now. My bad. Any criminal with a sixth-grade intelligence can get through this lock. All I need is…
I shove my hand in my front pocket, hoping to find a paper clip or something, but of course there’s nothing. I don’t carry trinkets around. What can I use to pick this lock?
I case the hallway once more, my phone flashlight beaming. I just need a safety pin or a paper clip. Hell, even a toothpick will do.
Nothing.
Until—
Bingo. A bobby pin. I lean down and pick it up. Nice. That will work fine as the rake, but I need a tension wrench, and this hallway is obnoxiously devoid of anything else.
So much for getting into Skye’s place.
I glance down at my tie with a sigh—
And I grin.
My tie bar. It’s platinum and ultra slim—still too thick for lockpicking, but I remove it and regard the back.
The platinum clasp is slightly thicker than a large paper clip, and if I’m calculating correctly, it’s just long enough to do the deed.
I twist the bobby pin into one long piece and remove the rubber end with my teeth, trying not to think where it might have been.
I insert it in the bottom of the keyhole, playing with the pressure while I rotate. I want enough pressure to pick the lock but not too much or I’ll bend the bobby pin.
I turn clockwise. Then counterclockwise.
Slightly less pressure clockwise. Step one down.
Next I insert the back of the tie bar above the bobby pin. Yup, there are the pins.
In a few seconds, the door unlocks.
Just like riding a freaking bike.
I was never a juvenile delinquent, but lock picking was something I learned out of necessity when I’d forget my key. Our rental in South Boston had shitty locks. The fact that Skye’s lock is no better than the lock on the house I grew up in pisses me off big-time.
Once inside, the first thing I do is get back on my phone and order a deadbolt for Skye’s door and pay extra for overnight shipping. It’ll arrive by tomorrow at noon. In the meantime, I’ll stay with her tonight so she’ll be safe.
I turn on the lights and look around. Her bed is unmade, which is odd, since she didn’t sleep here last night. Of course, she doesn’t have a housekeeper to make sure the bed is always made.
A fresh baguette sits on her kitchen counter. I set the gift bag on her small table and then pour myself a glass of water and drain it.
I check my phone again. Nearly ten o’clock…and nothing from Skye.
Damn!
Should I call the police? They won’t do anything.
I make a quick call to my own people and have them run a trace on Skye’s phone. Ten minutes later—
“Yeah?” I say into the phone.
“Nothing, Mr. Black. Her phone must be dead.”
I rake my fingers through my hair.
Fuck.
“All right. Thanks.”
I turn off the lights, plunk down on her love seat.
And I wait.
“Shit!”
I jerk upward in the dark. It’s nearly midnight.
Skye tumbles through the door and lands on her ass.
Thank God!
She stands and brushes off her jeans. Does she realize I’m here?
I’m still sitting on her love seat, my legs crossed. “Hello, Skye.”
She stumbles, nearly losing her footing.
Serves her fucking right.
“How did you get in here?” she demands.
“Your lock is a piece of shit,” I say. “An amateur thief could get in here.”
“Does that mean you’re an amateur thief?”
“I’ve never stolen anything in my life. It means I grew up in South Boston and I know how to get inside a shitty lock.”
“You’re something,” she says. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“I honestly have no idea, Braden. I texted you and told you I was having dinner with Tessa and asked if I’d see you later.”
“And I responded.”
She grabs her phone out of her purse and glances at it. “Uh…no, you didn’t.”
“I didn’t respond by text,” I say. “I sent you an email telling you I’d meet you at your place at nine.”
She swallows. “Why would you reply to a text via email?”
“Because your text came in on my computer, and I had my email open, so I replied that way.”
Her mouth drops open, but she doesn’t respond.
“I find it hard to believe, Skye, that you didn’t check your email. Email is part of your livelihood these days.”
“Well, I didn’t,” she says flatly. “My phone was dead.”
At least that explains why my people couldn’t find her.
