Dean is halfway up the outside staircase to the office on the second floor, gripping the banister as he looks down at me. I’m shaking in place. He takes one step up, looks at me again, and stops. Mr. Evans runs out the door, followed by Mrs. Evans.

She’s not going to like this.

“What is going on?” Mr. Evans quickly makes his way to Dean.

“Someone’s breaking into the office upstairs.” I avoid eye contact so I don’t have to be the one to explain more to Mrs. Evans.

“Get downstairs, Dean,” Mr. Evans’s voice booms.

Mr. Evans is a few inches shorter than Dean, but he makes up for it with his commanding presence. Dean’s foot hovers over the next step up, pausing. Then he backs down and meets us in the alley. He keeps watch on the door, expecting the guy to come down any second.

Mr. Evans grabs the shotgun from Dean and posts with it at the bottom of the stairs. This is the only exit and entrance to the loft. We watch from afar. Nothing is moving Mr. Evans out of his place, his boots firmly on the ground.

Mrs. Evans has her I-told-you-so face on, with eyebrows raised. This will be trouble for Dean. I mouth, Sorry, to him.

A police car arrives, then another. They park between the alley and the front of the store, and then meet Mr. Evans at the stairs. He must have turned off the blaring alarm, because it’s finally silent. After ten minutes, officers go in and out. The guy is nowhere to be found. Either he hopped the fence and never made it upstairs, or he scaled down one of the windows from the back room of the office.

Dean leads his mom and me upstairs, where we meet Mr. Evans and three officers. One of them is Officer Clyde, the silver-haired officer from the Pike.

At first glance the room looks the same, except a window’s open. The closed file boxes in the back have been tampered with. I know for a fact they were sealed, since I taped them shut myself.

The officers walk around. I study them. Watch how they open up the boxes, sifting through and pulling files out. I make a noise with my throat to catch their attention. Mrs. Evans is also examining the loft. Her mouth is tight, disapproval on her lips. When she heads back downstairs, I can’t help but feel relief that we won’t have to tiptoe around her anymore.

“What you say your name was?” Mr. Evans steps up.

“Clyde,” the silver-haired officer responds. “Not sure what we’re looking for. You saw an intruder?”

I hope he doesn’t recognize me, but my hopes are dashed when I feel his recognition laser in on me.