A moment later, I slid through a gap in the tall evergreen shrubs that hid the back of the house from the lake’s shore, avoiding the actual footpath and its stone steps down to their private dock. Stepping along the fence, I got as close to the line as I dared without breaking cover, then reached out to tug off a pair of jeans and baggy sweats, grabbing a long-sleeved T-shirt and an only slightly damp sweatshirt from another section of line.
Taking my bundle back into the hedge, I didn’t wait but pulled the bloody and ripped-up white waitressing blouse over my head and left it in the bushes. Then I writhed out of the black miniskirt and even my underwear so that I was stark naked, and freezing my ass off. In less than a minute, I’d pulled on the long-sleeved tee and jeans, rolling up the cuffs on the latter so they rested on the top of my feet and folding over the waist to keep them up without a belt. I left the sweats and sweatshirt in the hedge and looked back up at the house itself.
That’s when I noticed the back door was open.
At first it made me panic. I wondered if someone had seen me, or come outside to collect clothes. When I didn’t hear or see anyone after a few minutes, however, I decided the door had already been open when I got there.
I hesitated only a half-second longer, then crept forward.
I knew we needed money, and this was better than mugging someone.
Time was an issue, too.
I walked to the back door, moving quietly. I tried not to think too much about how I must look, with my hair bunched up with lake gunk in it, my arms and face bloody and bruised. I told myself that these people could afford to be robbed, with a house like this on the lake...and if they found it disquieting that someone had snuck into their house while they were at home, well, that was a small price to pay.
It still didn’t feel great, though.
I peered into a large but dated kitchen with dark oak cabinets and white-tile counters. The linoleum was clean but faded from its original flecked gold and white. On a butcher-block cutting board, I saw an actual homemade pie. Staring at it, seeing the dark berry puree bleeding out of the crust, I felt my stomach grind into a hard knot.
Tiptoeing around the pie to the refrigerator, I opened the door softly, glancing over the contents before grabbing a container of milk and quaffing it. Setting it down carefully so as not to rattle the metal shelf, I pulled out a package of bread, then another plastic package of what looked like real cheese, probably from one of the local farmer’s markets.
As I closed the door softly, I caught sight of the entryway table. On it sat a leather purse, worn to a pale beige from years of use. It looked like something my mom would buy and wear into nothing, too, and suddenly I felt a little sick.
Shoving aside my lingering guilt, I walked with painstaking care down the hall, conscious of any loose floorboards as I lifted and placed my bare feet. I reached the purse and opened the snaps, wincing at the faint click before I tugged it open.
The woman’s wallet lay on top, a faded Gucci with a white and brown pattern along the coin purse. I opened it quickly and quietly, found an ident card and breathed a sigh of relief in spite of my guilt. Tugging it carefully out of the side pocket and shoving it into the front pocket of the stolen jeans, I closed the purse, then hesitated again, seeing the woman’s headset.
I could leave both in the taxi. Minus a few credits, the woman would probably get them both back without too much of a hassle; the cabbie would be legally obliged to turn them in, and they were both coded to her. Hesitating only a second longer, I snatched up the headset, too, and turned for the back door.
I found myself facing a four-year-old boy with dark eyes and dark hair. His mouth fell slightly open as he stared up at me, his eyes growing wider and wider. My heart thudded in my chest, but I held up a hand to reassure him.
“It’s okay, kid,” I whispered. “It’s for a good cause. Tell your mom I’m really sorry.”
The kid stared at me, his almond eyes growing wider still.
Then his mouth dropped open for real.
“Mom!” he shrieked. “Mommy! There’s a dirty lady in here! She has my sammich bread! She has my sammich bread!”
My heart stopped for a half-beat.
...Then I bolted, leaping over and past the boy.
I landed off-kilter on one foot, picked up my weight, stumbled for the door, limping on the ankle I’d just twisted. I knocked into the door frame as I ran by, smacking my shoulder and making a loud clattering noise that echoed into the small clearing.
A screech of lake-rusted hinges followed me as the door swung behind my erratic path. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the door hung crooked on its wooden frame.
I didn’t look back again.