Addison
I MET DYLAN in the living room where she did a full sweep of my body and burst out laughing. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“Um, all black. We’re breaking into an office in the middle of the night. I don’t want to be seen.”
“Is that a bustier? I’ve never seen someone wear one before.”
“Hell yeah, it is.” I settled my hand on my hip and smiled. “And I’m rockin’ it.”
“Bustier, leggings, and heels? Seriously?” She shook her head. “Ohmigod, crazy lady, you can’t wear a bustier or heels to a B&E.”
“I’m sorry, is there a B&E fashion guide I’m unaware of?”
She dropped her face to her hands and groaned. “Addison!”
“Look, it’s comfortable, it all goes well together, and it’s the only all black outfit I could throw together on such short notice. It works for what we need.”
She pointed to my shoes. “You’ll probably break an ankle if we have to run from the cops.”
“I do not run from cops, Dylan. In fact, there is one cop in particular that I’d like to run into dressed like this. I bet he’d—”
“Stop! Please spare me the details. I get it. I’m already having nightmares.”
“Good. We can go then.” I tugged a black beanie out of my purse and pulled it over my head. Again, she laughed. “What now?” I demanded.
“You look like you should be on the cover of Victoria Secret’s thug edition.”
“Thanks?” I said. There were definitely worse things I could look like.
“If we put your hair up in pigtails, you’d look an anime character.”
I fluffed up my ta-tas. “Like a sexy anime character.”
“Forget it. You’re fired. I’ll go alone.”
“Oh, ho! I see what you’re doing.”
“Did you just call me a ‘ho’?”
“Yes, Dylan, I called you a ho,” I droned sarcastically. “Stop trying to shame me into bowing out of this. I’m your wingman. I’m going!”
“I’m not trying to get a date, Addie, I’m trying to clear my name.”
“If you don’t quit arguing with me, I’m calling Asher to kibosh the whole thing,” I threatened.
“Snitches get stitches, Thug Barbie,” she said, threatening me right back. Then she shook her head and sighed. “This is my fight, Addie. I don’t want to drag you into it with me.”
I threw my hands up in frustration. “I’m already in this, dumbass! And you didn’t drag me into shit, so I swear to Buddha, if you don’t stop trying to figure out a way to keep me out, and focus that energy on getting the evidence we need to clear you, I will cut you!”
“You will?” she gasped. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
I ignored her. “Thousands of little cuts, then I’ll dip you in a bathtub full of lemon juice and hang you somewhere windy to dry.” By the time I was finished with my rant, I was breathing hard, but one look at my best friend and we dissolved into a fit of giggles, both of us sliding to the floor before we toppled over.
“So, you really want to do this, huh?” Dylan asked once we caught our breath.
I drew my knees to my chest and set my elbows on them. “I don’t know that we have a choice.”
“This is true.” She sat cross-legged and sighed. “I can’t believe you’re wearing a bustier. I didn’t even think they made those things anymore.”
Pushing myself off the floor, I grabbed my hoodie and held my hand out to help her up. “Let’s go. I say we take the MAX... I don’t want anyone to write down my license plate or anything.”
“So we’re going to grab the MAX in our cat burglar garb?”
“Well, we’ll leave the beanies off.”
Dylan chuckled. “Good plan. Then when we put them back on, it’ll be like Superman putting on his glasses. No one will recognize us, for sure. You know, because nothing else about our outfits will draw attention.”
“Smartass,” I said, grabbing my Louis Vuitton tote. I shoved my beanie and keys inside, but Dylan stopped me.
“We should leave the security fob thingies here,” she said.
“What if we run into the guys from your apartment?” I asked.
“Then we’re screwed.” She set her keys on the counter. I popped off my fob and placed it beside her keys, then we headed out the door.
It was late, so the MAX was mostly empty. We did manage to get some strange looks from a mother and her two middle-school aged daughters, though. Dylan—because she’s Dylan—advised the girls to stay in school and make good choices before we hopped off at our stop. They both nodded and snuggled closer to their mom.
We went to the back of the building and Dylan called Quinton. She disconnected and we waited a few minutes—looking way too conspicuous wearing all black and huddling together in the alley—until we heard a click.
“Here we go,” Dylan said, pressing on the door.
I closed my eyes and said a little prayer, which must have worked since the alarm didn’t sound. Then we were inside a stairwell that would have been completely dark without the safety strip lighting running around the baseboards. Stairs led up and down.
“Which way?” I whispered, putting on my black beanie.
“Just a sec,” Dylan whispered. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a stick of something. She spread it all over her face and then handed it to me. “Use that.”
I looked at her now darkened face and shook my head. “I don’t want to.”
“It’ll disguise your features. Use it.”
It was too dark to read the label, and I had no idea what sort of processed crap was in this stuff. “What if it makes me break out?”
Dylan groaned, took it from me, and spread it all over my face before I could protest.
“Hey!” I said, swatting her hand away.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” she said, pocketing the pencil.
My face felt waxy. I tried not to think about that as I followed her up four flights of stairs.
“Elevators are totally underrated,” I said when we paused for a breather.
She nodded. “So are gym memberships. We really need to get into shape, you know?”
“We are in shape,” I argued.
“The shape that enables us to climb stairs without needing oxygen tanks,” she clarified.
“Oh, that kind of in shape. Yeah, I don’t even think I ever want to be that kind of in shape.” Really, I didn’t want to put in the workout hours necessary to get into that kind of shape. I yanked off my hoodie and shoved it in my tote.
Dylan made another phone call and Quentin worked his techie magic again, unlocking the fourth-floor door. Something about the sound of our feet against the carpet of Dylan’s office finally made this real. We were in her old workplace. There was no going back without the spreadsheet, and if we got caught we’d probably both spend the night in jail.
“At least it’s a Wednesday,” I said.
Dylan’s eyebrows rose in question.
“If someone comes, make sure you hide. If I get caught, Daddy can bail me out tomorrow. If you get caught, well...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. They’ll revoke my bail,” Dylan said before creeping further in.
The locks were electronic, so Quentin was able to get us all the way into Kirk’s office before we encountered our first problem. Dylan froze in front of Kirk’s desk and let out the most creative stream of almost swear words I’d ever heard.
“Problem?” I asked.
“It’s gone!” She gestured at the desk. “His mother-freaking, holy crap-on-a-stick computer is flippin’ gone.”
“Could you access the spreadsheet from someone else’s computer?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Possibly. His assistant has access to it.”
“I thought you were his assistant?” I asked.
“No. I’m the assistant for the financials. He has a personal assistant. Michelle.”
“Think he was trying to sleep with her too?” I asked.
“Probably.” Dylan shrugged. “Her desk is this way. Come on.”
Half-crouched, we wove our way through office furniture, heading toward a cubicle. Dylan powered on the computer and we waited as it whirred to life. The password prompt came up and Dylan swore again. Then she started searching through drawers.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“The security Nazis make us change our computer password every thirty days. Nobody can ever remember theirs, so we all write it down and stash it somewhere around our desk.”
“That’s some fine security there,” I said, joining in her search.
“No doubt.”
I found half a Post-it under a picture of a girl with a cat. It had a handwritten series of letters and numbers on it. “Could this be it?”
Dylan shrugged and tried it. When it didn’t work, we continued our search, finding the password that worked stuck to the bottom of the tape dispenser. The desktop fired up and Dylan stuck a flash drive into the front of the computer. Then she clicked through files, copying some to the drive, and opening others. One of the spreadsheets required a code. She tried the boot password but it didn’t work.
“What’s that one again?” she asked, pointing at the photo.
I rattled off the code and she typed it in, opening the spreadsheet. A bunch of numbers sprung to life.
Dylan scanned the screen asking, “Since when is this password protected?” Shrugging off her own question, she handed me a pen and a piece of paper and asked me to copy down the code. She clicked on a few more documents, grabbed her thumb drive, and turned off the computer.
“What’s that?” Dylan asked, pointing to something above my head.
I turned and pulled down the announcement pinned to Michelle’s bulletin board. “Funeral for Kirk the Jerk. This Saturday at ten a.m.”
Dylan snapped a picture of it and slid her phone into her pocket. “Cool. We’ll be there.”
Before I could argue, we ran into our second problem. Wheels squeaked against the office carpet, accompanied by the faint sound of music.
“Duck!” Dylan whispered, pulling me down with her.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She put a finger to her lips and slowly peeked around the desk. Then she leaned against me and said, “Cleaning lady. She has headphones on.” She cupped her ears for emphasis.
“What do we do?” I asked. If the cleaning lady came around the desk and saw us, we were screwed.
“We get out of here before she sees us,” Dylan said. Then she turned back to peer around the desk, banging her head against the cleaning lady’s knee. “AHHHHHH!” Dylan screamed, throwing her arms up.
The woman screamed back, spraying something at Dylan.
“Ow! My eyes!” Dylan shouted, knuckling them as she turned away.
A stream of angry-sounding Russian words preceded more spritzes of something that smelled like vinegar, spurring me into action. I grabbed Dylan’s hand and we went barreling for the exit while the cleaning lady continued her angry tirade behind us. We made it to the stairs, pushed open the door, and the alarm sounded.
“Shit!” I shouted, covering my ears against the blaring racket.
“Keep your head down,” Dylan said, still rubbing at her eyes. We linked hands again and half sprinted, half slid down all four flights of stairs before pushing our way out into the cool January evening. Sirens sounded in the distance, coming ever closer, so we kept running. My lungs were burning and there was a stitch in my side, but Dylan dragged me on, muttering something about not going back to jail.
Since there was no way we could get back on the MAX with our faces all painted up, she shoved me into a gas station bathroom where we were careful not to touch anything as we caught our breath. My feet were killing me.
“Next time, no heels,” I said between gasps of air.
“I tried to tell you,” Dylan said.
Feeling gross and sweaty, I glanced in the broken mirror above the sink long enough to confirm that black face paint was sliding down my face. “No face paint either.”
“What are you talking about? Face paint was an excellent idea. There is no way that maid will be able to pick us out of a lineup.”
She had a point. “Your proficiency at this is kinda starting to scare me,” I said.
Dylan laughed. “Stick with me, kid, I’ll learn ya all I know.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m afraid of,” I retorted.
We took turns scrubbing our faces until they were pink and mostly paint-free, before reemerging into the night.
Dylan gestured at my outfit. “You need to put your hoodie back on.”
“No way.” Despite the chilly air, I was still burning up from running. “It’s too hot.”
She tilted her head. “Please? I don’t want to go back to jail.”
“What does my hoodie have to do with you going back to jail?”
“Because dressed like that in downtown Portland in January, someone is going to think you’re selling something and they’re going to proposition you. Then you will freak the hell out and start beating them over the head with your purse and I’ll have no choice but to join in. Cops will be called, and I will go back to jail.”
She had a point, so I pulled my hoodie out of my tote and put it back on.
Thankfully we made it back to the MAX without any more trouble. Still out of breath and no doubt looking guilty, we climbed aboard and headed for home. My phone rang. I looked at the display and got the strongest feeling of déjà vu.
“Ohmigod, it’s Ashey!” I said, smacking Dylan on the arm with my free hand.
“So, answer it,” she said.
“No!” I argued. “He’ll know what we did.”
“He can’t possibly know what we did, Addie. You’re overreacting.”
The phone stopped ringing and we both relaxed. I gave Dylan a relieved smile, but jumped when it rang again. “Damn it! He’s calling again.”
“Then answer it,” Dylan insisted.
“This feels just like that one day when we snuck out of school to go swimming. We didn’t even make it a block away and he called. He knows. I’m sure of it.”
“There’s no way he knows,” she insisted. “Even if he does, he didn’t rat us out then, and I’m sure he won’t rat us out now.”
I nodded and took his call, trying to sound as relaxed and law-abiding as possible. “Hey, Ashey, what’s up?”
“Where are you and Dylan?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Addison, it’s a straightforward question, and if you say you’re at home, I’ll know you’re lying.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have said that, because it wouldn’t be true.”
My brother groaned. “Addison, just answer the damn question.”
“We’re on our way home. Why? Is everything okay?”
Silence.
“Ashey?”
“Why aren’t you home?” he asked.
Lying was never my thing, and since he was a criminal defense attorney, Asher was like a human lie detector anyway. Sticking to the truth, I said, “We were out. Why do you want to know?”
He let out a frustrated growl. “I’ll be right over.”
Dylan’s eyes were wide when I hung up the phone. “What? What is it?” she asked.
I didn’t know how it was possible, but now I was certain. “He knows.”