Page 1 of Stranger Danger

Chapter 1

Beckett

Breaking into someone’s house is surprisingly easy. Keeping your pants attached to your body is much harder.

I yank my leg. Nothing. The rusty nail holding the strap in place doesn’t budge. Bracing my foot against the siding, I pull harder.

Rrrip.

There goes the last strap on my left leg.

I free myself with zero grace, bash my chin against the carpet, and lie there for exactly three seconds staring at an ant.

I’ve spent four weeks planning this.

Three nights parked across the street pretending to wait for a drunk friend while I took notes. I printed two different blueprints before finding the right one. I know which neighbor leaves their trash on the sidewalk, which dog barks at squirrels instead of cars, what takeout Raymond gets—

I’ve accounted for everything except my cargo pants.

This is fucking great.

Sweat trickles down the side of my nose beneath the ski mask. I peel the itchy fabric away from my mouth to wipe some of it off, then push myself onto my feet.

No lights come on upstairs or downstairs.

Not a single sound.

Good.

If I’m going to get caught, I’d like it to be for my art and not a petty B&E. Last thing I want to do is spend a year in jail for the dumbest crime known to man—I’m better than that.

Across the hall, Raymond’s door is cracked open.

Which is strange.

I smooth the torn strap on my thigh and step into the hallway.

One.

He should already be asleep. He gets home from his job at the diner at 6:15 P.M. Eats a burger and fries by seven. Watches two or three episodes of whatever reality TV he’s pretending is realistic, then goes upstairs at ten. He’s asleep by 10:45 P.M most nights.

Two.

Three.

Did he get up to take a leak? The bathroom light is off.

Four.

Five.

The heater kicks on. Burning dust and old pennies coat the back of my tongue, swirling down my throat.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.