We finally breathe. “This blanket smells like sewage, and my boss is stealing money under my expense accounts while he carefully frames me for a myriad of fuckups. But other than that, I think we’re good. What about you? You okay?”

“Are you kidding me?” he sings into the cool night air. “This is awesome!”

“But are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you could just pull up, kick us out, and get the hell out of here,” I say.

“Hell no. I hate the way Brad treats Maxine, and this shit is crazy! Can you feel that adrenaline?” He howls a little into the cab of the truck. “Let’s take him down!”

“So Eric’s definitely in,” I whisper.

Amelia laughs at my side. “What tipped you off?”

The truck slows to a stop, and Eric unrolls the front windows before turning off the engine.

“All right. I’ll go inside. None of the staff should be here, so I’ll leave the front door open. His office is upstairs, fourth door on the right. You all remember the game plan?”

“Got it,” Amelia says.

“Remember: give me two minutes and I’ll get Maxine to take me into the kitchen for something to eat. I’m hoping I can get you guys at least fifteen minutes. That long enough?”

“It’ll have to be,” Amelia says.

The door opens and the truck shifts as Eric climbs out. “Okay,” he says, taking a step before stopping again. “Should we like . . . synchronize our watches or something?”

“If we sang ‘Swinging on a Star’ to time ourselves we’d be just like Bruce Willis and Danny Aiello in Hudson Hawk.”

Amelia glares at me in the dark. “Evie, usually I entertain these little movie tangents, but I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up.”

“Just go, Eric!” Daryl whisper-yells.

“Right, right. Going.”

The sound of Eric’s feet on a gravel path carries through the dark, and he knocks on the door.

While we wait, Amelia taps my shoulder. “Does Carter know where you are?”

“Ha . . . no. I haven’t talked to him since this morning. Right now we’re dressed like cat burglars and hiding in the bed of our boss’s nephew’s truck. Probably best to leave this part out when I tell him about my day.”

Voices carry from outside and we all straighten, straining to hear. The front door opens, and immediately we hear a woman exclaim, “Eric, honey! What a surprise!”

My heart is pounding in my head as I listen to their conversation dissipate and finally disappear.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Pulling the blanket off of us and sitting up slowly, I look around, making sure we really are alone out here. I’m the first to climb out, keeping low to the ground and watching around us. Maxine’s Mercedes is parked at the opposite end of the drive, but—thankfully—there’s no sign of Brad’s obnoxious yellow Ferrari anywhere.

Amelia is next, and she kneels on the ground by my side. As we both look around, Daryl falls out of the truck, rolling in the gravel.

“Smooth,” Amelia whispers.

“Sorry,” Daryl says. “I was kicked out of yoga.”

It’s strange being here without the Christmas lights and the valets, the holiday music and voices filtering out from inside the giant house. Instead there’s just silence, the chirp of crickets in the bushes beyond. Then, as we get closer, the faint tinkling of laughter coming from the direction of the house, the door left conveniently ajar.

Thank you, Eric.

A tiny sliver of yellow light cuts a line across the porch, and we creep forward, peering through the crack and into the grand entryway. All clear.

Glancing at Amelia, I press a hand on the cool wood, wincing when the old hinge emits a tiny whine as it swings open. I wonder if Eric heard it, because his voice grows louder and more enthusiastic from the back of the house.

A wide staircase unscrolls in front of us. I motion for Amelia and Daryl to go on ahead, staying behind just long enough to close the door with a soft click. Our tennis shoes are almost silent on the steps as we climb, carefully peeking around the corner before turning right at the top of the stairs.

At my side, Amelia holds up four fingers and points to a door at the end of the hall. Nodding, I watch as she wraps her gloved hand around the knob and slowly turns.

It swings open.

Even here, Brad Kingman’s office looks exactly the way you’d expect. His desk is huge and covered with books and piles of paper. In the light from the window we can see a bunch of golf memorabilia, and what has to be every award and accolade he’s ever received—right down to newspaper clippings—proudly displayed. Framed photos line his bookcases, all sharing a single common characteristic: he’s the star of each of them.

“Even his office is a pretentious dick,” Daryl says, closing the door behind us. Turning on her small flashlight, she shines it around the walls. “Is that a safe?”

I follow her gaze and then run my own light along the desk, stopping when I come to a bank of filing cabinets. “Do you guys want to look for the file cabinet key and I’ll start with his computer? I can try to work out his password.”

Amelia agrees and begins to search. Together she and Daryl look under books and papers, in drawers, and behind every photo frame, while I wake up the computer, the password prompt lighting up the screen.

I start with Brad’s name—first and last—then his wife’s, and every combination in between. I try his birthday, the number of Oscars his clients have won, even combinations of his name with his golf handicap. (Yes, we’ve all had to hear stories of his country-club valor over the years.) No luck.

“I think I found something!” Daryl says, stretching to feel along the bottom of a drawer. Having struck out so far, I turn to watch, practically jumping with joy when she comes away with a small brass key in her hand.

“What kind of person tapes a key to the underside of a drawer in their own house?” she whispers, moving to the filing cabinet and sliding the key into the lock.

“Someone who’s got a lot to hide,” Amelia says.

We hold our breath as Daryl turns the key, and the lock clicks in the silence. “And doesn’t think anyone has the balls to come looking,” she adds.

“Thank fuck,” Amelia says, flashlight in hand as she starts searching with renewed effort through files. “Anything that has to do with the names we found, tax ID numbers, web hosting companies, bank accounts, anything. If it looks shady, take a picture of it.”