Made You Up(52)

I knew something here must have been a delusion. Something. The darkness made everything worse, but this place . . . no one could live like this. This had to be fake.

“Uh-oh—Ohio’s outside.” Art nodded toward the side of the porch, where a makeshift doghouse gave shelter to the biggest Rottweiler I’d ever seen in my life. It looked like the kind of dog that ate babies for breakfast, old men for lunch, and virgin sacrifices for dinner.

No wonder he was Miles’s dog.

“He lives here?” I leaned forward for a better look at the house. “How is this even habitable?”

“It’s not, I don’t think. His dad survives by constantly surrounding himself in a booze haze and setting the hell hound loose on the neighbors.” Art shuddered. “The first time we ever picked Boss up, Ohio was awake. I thought he would bite my head off, and I never got out of the van.”

I had never imagined big, bulky Art being scared of anything. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this. So Miles wasn’t rich. I’d still expected something a little nicer.

“What does his dad do?”

Art shrugged. “I think he’s some kind of security guard downtown. There’s only the two of them, so I don’t think they’re hard up for cash. But no one takes care of the place.”

Movement on the second floor distracted me. The window on the far left slid open. A dark figure crept through the narrow opening like a cat and reached back in for a coat and a pair of shoes. He put the coat on but carried the shoes, then hurried to the side of the porch roof, lowered himself down the drainpipe like a ghost, and dropped silently on the balls of his feet, right on top of the doghouse.

Ohio gave a snort, but he didn’t wake up.

The figure climbed off the doghouse, padded across the yard, hopped the fence, and ran around to the back of the van. I forced myself to start breathing again.

Miles climbed in through the back, shaking slush out of his hair and socks. He shoved his feet into his shoes. Art pulled away from the house.

“Damn dog.” Miles flopped over, resting his head back. It was still weird seeing him this way. Jeans and an old baseball shirt under his bomber jacket. Boots that looked like chew toys. He raked his hair back, cracked an eye open, and caught me staring.

“I live in Shitsville, I know.” He looked at Art. “Did you get the stuff?”

“Behind me.”

Miles grabbed the black duffel bag stashed behind the driver’s seat and dumped the contents on the floor, where they rolled around.

A container of IcyHot, a bag of little black specks, five or six heavy-duty bungee cords, a screwdriver, a socket wrench, and a small sledgehammer.

“What’d you bring this for?” Miles asked, picking up the sledgehammer.

Art shrugged. “Thought it’d be fun. In case we need to smash anything.”

I snorted. Art’s hands were like two sledgehammers on their own.

“Don’t smash anything too expensive. I told Alex we weren’t committing any felonies.”

“Uh, Boss? What do you call breaking and entering?”

“A felony,” said Miles. “But it’s not breaking and entering if you’ve got a key.” He pulled a single key out of his pocket and held it up.

“Where the hell’d you get a key?”

“I’ve got someone on the inside. Turn here. He’s the third house on the left.”

We were back in Downing Heights, winding our way up the road toward the super-fancy houses. We stopped in front of one that looked like it could have been Bill Gates’s second home. The front walk led up to a three-door garage and a huge porch with a stained-glass double door.

Miles shoved everything but the screwdriver, wrench, and sledgehammer into the duffel bag. “Art, you’ve got the car. Alex, you’re coming with me.” He checked his watch. “Hopefully no one wakes up. Let’s go.”

We got out of the van and jogged toward the house. Miles stopped beside the front door, flipped open the security keypad, and typed in a code. He turned to the door and unlocked it with the key. The doors swung open.

We stepped inside an entryway. Miles closed the door behind us and checked the other keypad inside the door, then motioned to another nearby door that must’ve led to the garage. Art headed through it with the screwdriver, wrench, and sledgehammer clutched in one hand.

This house belonged in Hollywood, not central Indiana. A huge staircase occupied the middle of the foyer (a foyer, they had a freaking foyer), splitting off in two directions upstairs. To the right of the foyer was a living room where the light from a TV flickered across the far wall. I hit Miles on the arm, pointing at the light. He shook his head and watched the doorway, and a second later a black-haired girl in paisley pajamas stepped into the foyer. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, staring straight at us.