Until I heard the sound of a key being stuck into one of the locks I’d just picked.

Snapping into action, I turned away from the window and rushed into the kitchen. The fridge was the nearest thing to the entryway, so I stood with my back to the slate door and listened as Carmichael unlocked the deadbolt. He was taking forever. Probably because he was also talking on the phone—something about a vote tomorrow. A coup, he called it.

He opened the door, then shut and relocked it, and just like that, I had him trapped. The amount of time it would take him to unlock and open the door inward was about twice as long as it would take me to slam him face-first against it.

I smiled to myself. I loved it when they made it so damn easy.

Of course, I didn’t show myself right then and there. I didn’t slam him into the door, much as I might have enjoyed it. I couldn’t risk whoever was on the other end of the call getting suspicious, let alone Carmichael uttering a full-fledged plea for help. I’d have to threaten him into hanging up, if he didn’t do it on his own first. My sword wouldn’t work as a means to up the threat, since he couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway; Mercy was still on the table, sheathed in her scabbard. My eyes landed on the knife block on the massive island opposite me. Promising, but still too far away.

Luckily, it never came to threats, because Carmichael is an oblivious boob. He brushed right past me and headed into the bedroom area, all the while talking on his phone about how excited he was for the meeting in the morning and how shocked he imagined she would look—whoever she was.

“Listen, Scott, I gotta go. I’ve got squash at seven, and my instructor throws a fit if I’m late.” He toed off his shiny dress shoes and loosened his tie. “Yeah. Yeah, you too, buddy. See you tomorrow.” He tossed the phone onto the bed and headed into the bathroom. The way this was playing out, I couldn’t have choreographed the whole thing better myself.

I listened as he continued to undress and turned on the shower, but I waited until I heard the shower’s glass door open and shut to follow him into the bathroom. I drew Mercy as I passed the table and picked up Carmichael’s phone and pocketed it before I stepped through the doorway into the slightly steamy room. Apparently the guy liked really hot showers.

I sat on the bathroom counter between the double sinks and watched him, my head tilted to the side. He had his back to me.

Mitch Carmichael wasn’t an unattractive man. I’d have placed him in his early sixties, and he was in pretty good shape—must’ve been all the squash he played. His tush was only a little saggy, and I figured he must tan—or fake tan or take a slew of fancy-pants vacations to the tropics—because a white dude like him doesn’t get a tan like that during a Seattle winter without some sort of assistance. He’s got a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and probably fits into the “silver fox” category.