Restart - An Original Novella

Chapter VIII {The Heist} Part 2

Saturday, May 28th

It's one-thirty in the morning, so technically it isn't Friday anymore. It still feels like it though.

I strut out of the house wearing a completely inconspicuous, womanly outfit — tight-fitting shirt, skinny jeans, and black tennis shoes. I am also holding a purse. This is to be filled with papers and whatever else Michael wanted me to find.

My destination is his house.

Previously, I had told you about my only times in Michael's bedroom. But I had also said that was a story for another time.

This would be a fitting time.

The reason why I had to sneak inside Michael's home instead of being politely invited to enter it was because of his parents' illogical loathing of me. They hate me, remember? They'd never let me in their house.

But I know how to get in.

Michael has told me all the information I need to know. His mother has business meetings late at night, starting at ten o'clock and ending at five-thirty. She always leaves the back door unlocked because she always loses keys, the mildly scatterbrained woman that she is. Her husband, the only person in the house left, is a very deep sleeper. He snores, too. That could cover up for me if I make any noises.

I let myself walk along the sidewalks in the dim light of the night lamps lit up along the street. The reason why I could be out at about two in the morning must not seem suspicious. Most of the windows in most of the houses are dark, but whoever might still be up cannot think my behavior is odd. Michael's house is only a few blocks away from mine, but since I can't run, it seems like an eternity before I see it.

There it is. I jump into the trees bordering the railroad tracks and strip off my disguise, stuffing it in my purse. I'll need it later. Underneath it, I am clad in all black. I pull the ski mask over my face, tucking in my hair. I will blend in with the night.

I open the back door slowly. Thank goodness, it's unlocked. I check my mental checklist. No need for Plan B, which was way riskier and banked a lot more on luck. I creep in and quietly close the door behind me, frowning at myself because it is so dark, making sure I test each step I take before putting weight in my thrusting foot.

That's when I hear a noise. And it isn't made by me.

I hear a snort and a guffaw as Mr. Hawke, I'm assuming, heaves himself out of his bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat, and it takes a while for my heart to stop racing. He trudges loudly to (as far as I can tell) the bathroom. I wait patiently to see if he will return to slumber, and soon, he does. I need to be extra careful now not to make a sound that he will notice. I'm glad that at least I know he is not fully asleep.

I cautiously reach the point where the stairway is to my right. I crawl up instead of walk, on all fours, without making a sound. Convenient that the stairs should be covered in synthetic fibers.

I finally reach Michael's bedroom. The door is closed, and I open it quickly. If I open it too slowly, it will squeal. My eyes dart around the room. It is pitch black, unfamiliar. I do smell cinnamon-spearmint, though. What made him smell so nice all the time? Was it perfume or deodorant? Suddenly I realize how little I asked Michael in life. Even though I probably wouldn't have asked him that question if it occurred to me.

I don't shut the door behind me, deciding I'd rather risk someone seeing the beam of my flashlight than having to open the potentially squeaky door to get out of here. I make sure to flash it around with my wrist cocked to one side so the light can't be seen too brightly from outside.