I quickly came in sight of the house, which sat at the top of a front yard that sloped up slightly. The houses on either side of it were mostly dark as well, and on the drive over, I’d decided not to hesitate or slow down at all. I’d walk up the driveway as though I belonged there. I got to the back of the house and turned around the corner and into the backyard, where I saw the small patio and French doors.

The house directly behind me was screened from view by a privacy fence, so I breathed a little easier. But I still felt exposed, like an athlete on a field with everyone in the stands watching to see what he would do. At that point, I felt more eager to get inside the house and out of sight of any potential witnesses.

Blake had told me that the woman frequently lost her keys, so she’d installed keypads on all the exterior doors. Since he’d spent so much time coming and going—at odd hours of the day and night—he knew the code, which I’d memorized so I wouldn’t have to fumble with paper while standing outside the house. Four digits. Easy enough.

But then I noticed something Blake hadn’t told me about.

A pretty big detail.

Not only did the door use a keypad, but a sticker on the door indicated the keypad was connected to an alarm system. I’d heard of those setups before, and it meant that if someone tried to enter an alarm code that didn’t work or if they messed up several times in a row, the alarm automatically sent an alert. The warning might go to the alarm company, who might then call the police. Or it might go to the homeowner, buzzing them on their phone.

Either way, it reduced my margin for error to almost nothing.

If I rushed and messed up the code . . .

Or if the code had been changed, and Blake didn’t know. After all, wouldn’t it make sense for a woman to change her keypad code after a breakup?

“Damn it, Blake,” I said, muttering in the dark.

It was the kind of detail he would have overlooked. Or failed to mention.

I could have left.

No one held a gun to my head. No one was forcing me to do anything.

But I already had the code memorized.

And the longer I stood outside, the greater the chance a neighbor would glance out the window and see me.

1-7-9-2.

1792. I knew from growing up that was the year Kentucky had been admitted to the union. Maybe this woman Blake was involved with was a history buff.

I typed it in one number at a time and went for the handle, hoping nothing went wrong.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The door refused to open.