CHAPTER 24

MILES: if the housekeeper doesn’t let you in, you have to bail. No copying files, no pictures. Just look and report back.

I roll my eyes after reading Miles’s text. Like I’m gonna leave Dominic’s room without copying everything from his laptop. Miles will thank me later. And I’m breaking the rules, not him.

ME: housekeeper didn’t answer. Don’t worry, I only broke 2 windows getting in

MILES: what?!

ME: jk

MILES: Rule #228 - no sarcasm

Actually, that’s a rule with my family, too. At least not in texting. But Miles has been driving me crazy all week with his rules. As if I’m not the one who bugged Dominic and has been listening in on him for two weeks or who got the tracking device on the drug dealer. I’m just glad to have a break from OCD Miles and his rules, not to mention his sexy voice constantly whispering things in my ear on the bus and slipping notes in my hand in the hallways. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s hooked a fish named Ellie and is slowly reeling her in.

Dominic’s house is a mansion, brick with hedges blocking the view from the road. But no security guard, no gated neighborhood. Getting in would be easier than a lot of other break-ins I’ve done. But no, I’m gonna ring the bell and ask to be allowed in. Thanks for making my job hell—I mean challenging—Miles.

When the housekeeper attempts to understand me, replying in broken English, I switch to Portuguese. I’m pretty good with that language. I explain that Dominic and I were studying in his room last night and I left my notebook. She retrieves a key from a box in the entryway and then leads me to his room and unlocks the door but stands in the doorway watching me like a hawk.

Yeah, great plan, Miles. Look at that, a murder weapon is lying right on Dominic’s bed. Right.

Of course, I had to actually leave my notebook here last night—by the book and all—during a Great Gatsby study session with about five of us from Lance’s fourth period, plus Miles. Too many to fit in Dominic’s room. Especially when there are thirty other rooms in this house. Miles left the notebook in Dominic’s room before we left the house.

Despite the fancy, immaculate home, Dominic’s room is disgusting. I barely manage to find my notebook in the mess, but the housekeeper smiles with relief when she sees my name written in curly cursive on the front. She turns her back to lead me out and old instincts kick in. I flip the lock on one of Dominic’s bedroom windows. The kind housekeeper shuts and locks Dominic’s bedroom door behind her, making it obvious that this room is off limits even to her skilled cleaning hands.

Minutes later, I’m climbing back inside the window, deviating from the plan. Miles will thank me later, I tell myself at least four times. To be safe and because it’s disgusting in here, I pop on a pair of latex gloves from my pocket before sifting through items piled on the bed. I snap photos of every paper, receipt, book on the shelf, then I find the laptop buried in the covers. I open it up and type his last name into the password box. It works. Idiot. Seconds later I’m inside the computer of Dominic DeLuca. Which might hold zero secrets.

While I’m waiting for his hard drive to copy onto the thumb drive I brought “just in case,” I stand in the corner of the room and study Dominic DeLuca’s personal space.

His bed is dressed with expensive linens in neutral yet trendy colors. It’s also covered with garbage, bags of chips, beef jerky wrappers, soda cans. I walk over to the tall bookshelf at the foot of the bed and scan each shelf individually. The one at eye level is full of books, carelessly stuffed in, some upside down. Papers are strewn in front of the books. I pick up a large envelope and read the front.

University of Pennsylvania Office of Admissions

I slide out the papers and scan them. Dominic’s been accepted for early decision. Buried under all the papers is a recent progress report from our school for the first few weeks of the grading period. Dominic’s barely pulling Cs in all his classes, has a 2.8 GPA, and is in the bottom half of our class. The shelf below is filled with CDs. I read the first few titles and don’t recognize any of the bands, but I do notice that they’re loosely alphabetized.

I scan the rest of the room, trying to find connections, any personality leaping out. Even though I’ve looked through his bag recently, I do it again. The articles about Simon are still there, stowed neatly in the envelope. One thing I can conclude is that Dominic DeLuca takes care of things he cares about and has no problem ruining anything he doesn’t.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read a text from Miles.

MILES: r u still in there? If yes, time to go!

What the hell, Miles? The download is at 90 percent. I shift from one foot to the other, typing a text to Miles.

ME: Stall.

MILES: can’t. Just get out!

Come on, come on, come on, I chant silently to the laptop. 96 percent…97 percent…

The sound of the front door opening is faint but clear enough. My heart slams against my chest. I rest my fingers on the flash drive, preparing to pull it.

98 percent…99 percent…

“Dominic! Where the hell are you?” a deep male voice says. Footsteps follow the voice up the stairs.

Shit. Oh shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut, count to five, and then pull out the drive. I glance at the laptop for a split second, taking in the words “Download complete” on the screen.

Someone fiddles with the lock. The doorknob turns. I dive into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, I slip behind it, suck in a breath, and hold it.

“Dominic, you better be in here!” Black dress shoes stomp past the bathroom door then spin and head right in.

I close my eyes again and wait. The man pauses, glances around the bathroom, makes a noise of disgust, then walks out. Seconds later, he slams the bedroom door. I wait a moment before emerging, then I bury the laptop in the bedcovers again, climb out the window, and make a run for the bus stop a block away.

I take a seat on the bench and try to catch my breath before shooting Miles a text.

ME: Close call but I’m out

MILES: good. You have your cover story but it’s easier this way

ME: yeah, so the story worked. But housekeeper watched me like a hawk. I had to go back in through less legal means

MILES: jesus christ, Ellie

ME: so I should destroy the flash drive full of Dominic DeLuca secrets?

MILES: My place. Thirty minutes.

My text messages vanish seconds later. Miles deleted them. Great. I mentally prepare myself for another St. Miles lecture, complete with guilt trips and reciting laws of search and surveillance. Can’t wait for that.