“I might need your help here, Dom,” I said as I pulled a lock-picking kit from my sweatshirt pocket. Doubling up on outerwear has its perks—extra storage being number one on the list.

“You know what to do,” my big brother said. “Just remember, it’s all about feel. Locate each of the pins first, then get started.”

I inserted a small, metal tension wrench into the lock on the handle, then added the lock pick and held my breath. I pushed the farthest pin up, feeling it click into place, and turned the wrench in the lock, then went to work on the next pin. I was sweating by the time I’d worked through the final three and had the thing unlocked, and I wasn’t even done. There was still the deadbolt to deal with.

I rose up on my knees and fit the tools into the upper lock. I worked through the first three pins pretty quickly, but even so, the florescent lights flickered when I was on the fourth pin. I turned the lock with the tension wrench and allowed myself a deep breath. One more pin to go.

I stiffened when I heard the snick of someone unlocking one of the doors farther up the hallway. “Shit!” I redoubled my efforts on the deadbolt.

The lights flickered again, working up the courage to shine on. As soon as they were back online, it would be only a matter of seconds until the cameras followed.

The final pin clicked into place, and I turned the wrench, exhaling in relief when the deadbolt slid free. I twisted the door handle and pushed the door open, slipping into the loft just as the door up the hallway opened. I snagged the case for my lock-picking kit, pulled my arm in through the crack, and shut the door. I sat on the ashy hardwood floor in the entryway to Carmichael’s loft, breathing hard and sweating like I’d just sprinted all the way up here using the stairs.

“That was way too close,” I said to Dom.

“You made it . . .”

I snorted in reply. While I waited for my breathing and heartbeat to slow, I fished Garth’s phone out of my right pocket and checked the time. It was a quarter till five. I had no clue when Carmichael would be home—assuming he truly wasn’t here already. But I figured I was safe; if he’d been home, the sound of the door opening should’ve drawn him out, if my knock hadn’t. Best to make sure, though.

I hoisted myself up off the ground and moved as quietly as possible into the loft. Considering my rubber soles and that I was naturally light-footed, my footsteps were almost silent despite my combat boots.

The loft was very open concept, the kitchen, dining area, and living space all blending together, much like in Garth’s condo, only on a grander scale. Carmichael had at least four times as much space as Garth, and plenty of furniture and decor to fill it. How he’d managed to find so much stuff that was both modern and tacky was beyond me, but—shiny, cherry-red plastic S-shaped dining room chairs? And a refrigerator door that doubled as a chalkboard? Really?