Sticky by Julia Swift Page B

again, parked in front of Freddie’s apartment, only to hike up the road to his complex, when the parking lot at the neighboring apartment building has plenty of empty spaces.
    Movement at Freddie’s again catches my eye. He’s standing up again, for only the third time today (seriously, it’s a wonder he hasn’t melted into that chair or turned into a slug already). That alone wouldn’t be enough to make me move, except that he leans over to the window and peers out, up the street. In my direction first, and I hold my breath, making sure not a single muscle in my body moves. Then he glances the other way, lingers on Mr. Too-Normal for a minute, and slaps the blinds closed.
    Moving as slow as I can, I unlatch my door and slide out of my seat. Wait until my feet hit pavement, then keep the car between me and Freddie’s window as I let the door fall almost shut, not slamming it completely.
    I don’t want to make that much noise.
    I wait beside the car, poised on the balls of my feet, until I hear a door slam. I dare a peek through the car windows, and sure enough, there’s Freddie, outside of the house for the first time today, an ugly neon orange jacket pulled around his shoulders and slippers on his feet.
    What the fuck ? I have time to wonder, before he slips straight into the car that Too-Normal deposited out front a few minutes earlier.
    I watch him drive up the street, pull right into the neighboring complex, and wait, idling in the driveway, his head darting around the way guys who are nervous about being spotted do, making their alertness way too obvious. Another minute passes, then Too-Normal strides out in a different shirt this time, a baseball jersey and his hat turned backwards. From this distance, I don’t get a good glimpse of his face—just nondescript, tan, and muscular.
    He climbs into the passenger seat of his own car, then the two of them roll off down the road, leaving me scowling in their wake.
    That’s either some kind of deal, with a contact I don’t recognize—definitely not one of Aaron’s—or there’s something about this job that Aaron isn’t telling me.
    Who the fuck is Frederick Casey really?
    Time to find out.
    I speed across the street, hands already fumbling for my lockpicks. This is a terrible plan. I should wait longer, map out his schedule before I go breaking into his place. For all I know, he’s taking his neighbor to the corner store and he’ll be back here inside of ten minutes.
    But I’m running out of time. For myself, for him, but most importantly, for Sloan. I cannot let Aaron send one of his dogs after her. No matter what, I will make sure that never happens.
    The first door is easy. It’s Freddie’s actual apartment that gives me pause. I undo the doorknob lock easily enough, then the bolt lock, but when I try to open it, I feel three other bolt latches stopping me.
    This kid is ten kinds of paranoid. He’s got painted-over locks for the lowest of the latches, so it blends into the door, looking the same pale white. At a glance you’d never even notice it. Once I pick that one, the other two are even harder to spot. A false panel in the door hides the second, and the third one has a fake lock over it, which I have to pick just to reach the real lock so I can spring that one too.
    The whole time, sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, gluing my T-shirt to my skin. There’s too much riding on this job. Every time I blink I see her face, and that’s making me sloppy. It takes me three tries to free the final bolt, and when I do, the sound of a car in the driveway has me flattened on the floor, creeping toward the communal apartment window to double-check.
    Mailman.
    Fucking hell.
    Then I’m back at Freddie’s door, swinging it open at last.
    At first glance, the living room looks normal. Sagging couch the color of dog shit, gray shag carpet that looks like one of those extra-hairy dogs up and died in the middle of the room. Guy definitely does not share