“My husband will be home soon,” she says, ignoring the food, my question. “He’s home for dinner every night. Take whatever you want and leave, and I’ll forget you were ever here.”

I lean an elbow on the bar, gesturing with the gun. “And here we were doing so well just now. Your husband doesn’t come home for dinner, ever. Don’t lie to me. Your children understand this. Why can’t you?”

She presses her lips into a straight line, and I squint, studying her face. Does she recognize me?

I’m pretty sure the answer is no, though it’s not for lack of trying. Her eyes have followed me since the second she saw me in the garage. I’ve seen the way she’s examined my build, clocking the shape of my eyes and my lips and skin and whatever else she can see of my face. I saw her ticking off my features one by one, searching her memory banks for a match. Jade’s one of those people whose every thought plays out on her face, which means that so far, she hasn’t made the connection.

I straighten, and my gaze sweeps the windows on the back side of the house, checking the view onto the driveway and fenced-in backyard—both deserted. Nothing out there but some squirrels and that big-ass pool, the water like shimmering black glass. It’s the front of the house I have to worry about—a solid wall of windows and glass doors.

“Now come on. We need to get our asses upstairs.”

Jade frowns, her pretty forehead crumpling. “Why...why do you want to go upstairs?”

“What do you think your neighbors will say when they see a guy in a ski mask marching through your living room? We’re okay here, but the rest of this place is like a fish tank.”

That’s what a couple million bucks in this town will get you—a palace high on a hill where every space winds into the next through mammoth, open doorways. Only three rooms on this level provide any sort of privacy: the master on the back end, the TV room behind Jade and the kids, and the kitchen I’ve parked us in. Other than that, it’s a straight shot for anyone outside looking in, up the yard and through the windows into the library, the dining room, the foyer and living room beyond. Fifty solid feet of unobstructed visibility from the street.

And I’ve cased this house often enough to know who’s out there. Bikers. Runners. Neighbors walking their prissy dogs.

I point to the ceiling. “What’s up there, bedrooms?”