He kept his eyes on the other houses as he cruised down the street. The only house probably occupied right now was the one owned by the tech guy. Cruz had gotten information on him already and knew he was harmless. The people in the houses immediately surrounding Shanice’s residence also checked out.
He’d watched the families on either side of her house leave earlier. On the left, the husband and wife drove away in the same car. The house on the right, the mother took her daughter in the car with her, about twenty minutes before her husband pulled out of the subdivision, probably on his way to work.
Cruz pulled into the driveway like he belonged there and climbed out carrying a small leather bag in hand, which contained a variety of tools.
Homeowners who paid for alarm systems thought their homes were secure—and they were, to some degree. But the sad truth was, wireless alarms were woefully easy to circumvent. The systems all suffered from the same weakness: they relied on radio frequency signals, but the signals weren’t encrypted, which made it easy for someone like him to intercept and decipher the data and use it however he wished.
He’d been watching the house ever since he arrived in Miami, so he’d taken care of capturing the data days before. As he took the walkway to the front door, key in hand, his brain replayed the stolen code he would need to disarm the alarm.
Cruz turned the key in the lock and walked into the house as if he owned it. The alarm beeped at him as he shut the door, and he punched in the code to turn it off. He waited in the silence, listening for movement or any other sounds that indicated the house wasn’t truly empty. One could never be too careful. He heard nothing unusual and confidently moved deeper into the house as he dialed the number to The Bookish Attic, using his Bluetooth so he could keep his hands free.
“The Bookish Attic. This is Shanice, how may I help you?”
He’d thought about her long after they parted ways last night and felt compelled to hear her voice. She sounded so chipper, he smiled.
“Good morning. This is Vicente. I’m at work and thought I’d call and say hello, like I promised.”
Important documents or items that needed to be hidden were usually kept in bedrooms—most often, the master. But he started with the rooms downstairs to be sure.
“Hiii,” she breathed. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since last night.”
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.” The words burned his tongue, though he wasn’t lying. He had been thinking about her, but he was deceiving her, nonetheless.
Seeing nothing in the pantry, Cruz went over to the large island in the middle of the kitchen.
“I had such a great time last night. Dinner was great, and I…I like you a lot, Vicente. You came along at the right time, to help me make a decision I’d been hesitant about.”
He stopped rummaging through the drawer in the island. “What decision is that?”
“I can’t say right now, but are you free tomorrow night?”
“I’m free tonight. I could stop by your house after work.”
“I can’t tonight. Ava and I have plans. How about tomorrow night?”
“That’s fine.”
“Good.” Her voice lowered. “I have a customer, so I have to go. Have a great day at work!”
“You, too.”
Cruz hung up. What was that about?
He completed his search downstairs. Finding nothing, he made his way upstairs. Based on her habit of turning on the light every time she came home from work, he already knew that Shanice’s bedroom faced the street. He checked the other bedrooms first, going through Beatrice’s nightstand and lifting the clothes in her dresser for a hiding place. The only notable item he found was an envelope of cash pushed between the mattress and the box spring.
The guest bedroom was mostly empty, containing only a full-size bed and an empty five-drawer bureau. He went down the hall to Shanice’s bedroom and cracked open the door.
Subtle and wispy, ginger and honey and her own natural body fragrance drifted into his nose. Tension coursed through his muscles, but he shrugged off his tightening body and began his search in the sparsely furnished room.
She didn’t have much in the way of personal possessions. No photos on the wall, and the nightstand was empty except for embossed note cards and a few pens. The bed was made with a bright yellow comforter and white sheets, and a laptop rested on the bureau across from it.
The top drawer contained a collection of bras and colorful panties in all styles—lace, cotton, cheekies. He picked up a pair of black panties edged with lace and imagined peeling the soft fabric from her hips.
Fighting a groan, he tossed the underwear back in the drawer and checked the next three. There were pajamas and a couple of nighties, shirts, and other clothing items. The last drawer didn’t contain any clothes at all.
He came up empty-handed in the bathroom and bedroom, so next he entered the walk-in closet. It was half full. A shelf at the top of the closet held empty decorative boxes and luggage. He moved them around, and behind a large suitcase, discovered a red backpack.
“What do we have here?” he muttered, lifting it down.
He opened the backpack and examined the contents. This looked suspiciously like a bolt bag, otherwise known as a go bag, the kind of thing he would pack in case he needed to evacuate a city quickly. She had a change of clothes, a flashlight, batteries, matches, and two bottles of water.
Shifting the contents, he saw a black plastic bag at the bottom. He took everything out and removed the bag. His lips tightened when he saw what was inside. Cash. Lots of it, mostly in large bills. Cold dread enveloped his skin as he fanned the money with his thumb. There must be close to fifty thousand dollars there.
He replaced all the items, returned the bag to its previous location behind the suitcase on the top shelf, and stalked out of the closet. Why the hell did Shanice have that much cash on hand?
According to Miles, she’d never once visited Dennis in jail. Could she have turned on him and received cash for the notebook, then bolted? But who would pay for it? Or was she a co-conspirator on the run, afraid that she, too, would end up dead?
He needed answers to those questions, and he needed to find out where the notebook was because it sure as hell wasn’t here. Maybe he should tie her up and use threats and intimidation to drag the information from her.
As soon as the thought came, he shunned the idea of violence. He’d find out what he needed to know in a different way. Using the small screwdriver he’d brought in the leather bag, he unscrewed the outlet beside her bed and installed a small listening device.
The other room where people spent a lot of time was in the kitchen, so he installed one there, too, behind the outlet where the toaster was plugged in. He installed another one in the living room as a backup.
Then he turned on the alarm, left the house, and locked the door, leaving the way he came.
Whatever Shanice’s involvement, she wasn’t innocent. No one kept that amount of cash on hand for no reason. He just hoped he wasn’t a damn fool who had fallen for a sweet act.
Seated on the lid of the commode in the bathroom at The Bookish Attic, Shanice stared at the number she’d written on a piece of paper. She still didn’t know if this was the right decision but had to do something. Spending time with Vicente made her think about her future and the possibilities, and most importantly, she didn’t want to risk putting his life in danger. By acting now, she opened the door to a future with him and would keep herself, and him, safe.