Mind Games

But until that day, it was more than enough to live free, to use that talent to take from the rich and give to himself.

No dog in the house. Not now, but there’d been one. And kids, one, maybe two, but not now.

The only people inside now slept, as he predicted, upstairs.

And yet, he felt something like breath on the back of his neck, like someone watching, watching so close they were all but inside him.

A line of sweat dribbled down his temple at the thought, forced him to look behind.

Fuck that, he thought.

He’d seen no signs warning of a security system, and saw no signs of one.

He’d worked with his tightfisted old man one summer, installing security systems in big MFMs like this one, so he knew what to look for.

What to do if he found something.

But the only thing on the wide glass doors was a lock.

Rather than pick it—his skills were top-notch there—he got the glass cutter out of his backpack.

It didn’t take long to slip his hand carefully through the circle he’d made and twist open the lock.

Once inside, he looked around at the big kitchen, the giant wall TV, the wide, L-shaped sofa they called a sectional.

He could see straight into the living room, the fireplace, another couch, chairs. Tables, lamps. Everything polished and pretty.

He should’ve lived in a house like this. These people weren’t any better than he was. They just got lucky, and liked to shove that in his face.

In his heart he wanted to smash it all, but he had to keep that mind clear.

There was the mudroom—as if this type ever had mud on their shoes—with a door that would lead into the garage.

And a home office—like they actually worked for a living.

A whole wall of pictures. Look at them, smiling for the camera! Frolicking at the beach or …

He stopped at the photo of the girl. The girl who looked a lot like the rich bitch, except …

Something in the eyes, something that made his breath go shallow, clouded into his mind. Like she looked straight at him.

Into him.

Made his blood run cold; walked icy fingers up his spine.

His hands balled into fists, and for a moment he lost his sense of the house, of the people sleeping upstairs.

He had to relax his hands, wipe the sweat coating his palms on his jeans.

He had to relax his mind to see.

“Too bad you’re not here. Too goddamn bad,” he muttered. “I’d take care of you, too.”

He imagined she had a trust fund, her and the boy—probably baby brother. Oh, he’d have taken care of them good, but they were probably at some rich-kid camp.

For another moment he lost track, just staring at that picture, into those blue eyes. They made his hands tremble, made him want to smash his fist into the face, close those blue eyes.

He had to turn his back on it, get his breath back, clear his mind.