And yet, you’ve also gotta trust your instincts and say, this fucker gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I’m not going to shrug it off. I’m going to call the Ciphers. I heard they get the job done without anyone knowing.
And here we are. The four of us will search his house and see for ourselves.
In staggered formation—Luke, Celia, me then Atlas—approach a pale yellow, one-story house of the rumored offender. Our rides are hidden around the corner, shut off long before we parked them under a weeping willow tree.
Luke notes aloud, “See how perfect it is?”
But Celia counters with hope, “He could just be tidy by nature.”
“Ceels, look at the homes on either side.”
Her eyes narrow as she scans. “Umbrella dropped by the door, plaid shirt on a rocking chair, curtains haphazardly drawn, dirty shoes on a porch. Leaves on both porches.”
Atlas jerks his chin. “Bicycle on its side behind that fence.”
“Signs of a normal life,” Luke explains with meaning. “Nobody’s perfect, no normal house is a museum. Except that dude’s right smack in the middle.”
We all get what he’s throwing down, but I say it aloud. “Meticulous to a fault.”
Luke corrects me, “Attractive to a fault. Remember the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel? Here little kiddies, what a pretty house made of…candy.” He locks eyes with me.
Atlas sneers, “So safe, I swear. Come on in.”
Celia sighs as we open his white picket fence, “We’re not being sly here.”
“The neighbors are the ones who tipped us off,” he reminds her. “They’re probably happy to see us coming.”
“I don’t like that it’s broad daylight,” she argues.
We tromp across a perfect lawn framed by perfectly trimmed flower bushes, and open the yellow side gate to enter his home through the back. Don’t need to hide our footprints in the grass because what could he do with them when he found them?
“Slow down, Soph, there might be someone else here,” she whispers.
“I hope there is,” I mutter, pulling my gun from the back of my ripped blue jeans, the hem of my shirt drifting into place.
Luke wordlessly takes the lead. He’s got his gun out, too. Celia follows me, and Atlas backs her up in line. They pull out their guns, hold them out but ready. This is protocol, boys flanking us so they can protect from the back or front if need be.
We were taught how to shoot a gun properly by age seven, with tiny twenty-twos. As we grew so did our guns. Normal people would find that dangerous, for children to use weapons, but for the Robin Hoods of clubs, it was just a wonderful part of our life.
No machine guns or stupid, unnecessary shit like that. We’d rather use our fists, and do, when we can. But there is some evil in the world that most people never want to believe is real. We know it is real.
We’re prepared.
Safety above all else, that’s the trick. Knowing the danger of one of these bad boys, and being skilled enough so that the weapon will never do what we don’t want it to, that’s why we trained for so long.
Practice makes a sober head and a steady hand.
Which Celia never has.
I get irritated with how much she worries, because it puts her at risk. Just like how Honey Badger held Luke back to age twenty, but made Atlas a Cipher at eighteen, I want her off the missions. I don’t care about me—I can take care of myself. I care about her being a danger to herself. I wouldn’t want to live if she weren’t on this planet. So I resist bringing her, every time.
I’ve privately and repeatedly told my father that I don’t think she qualifies, that some of us weren’t born for this.
She’s Carmen’s daughter, Dad!
So?
Carmen wouldn’t hurt a spider if it bit her. And Tonk is the softest man among us! You’ve said it yourself to Mom—he was the last to join your crew and he lost his edge when he fell in love with her. I mean, did he ever have it? Just look at Tonk Jr. and you can see it. I don’t want Celia out there if she’s a liability to herself!
There are things you don’t know.
What is that supposed to mean?
My judgment is sound.
But Dad...
You question that?
No.
I don’t want to hear about this again.
But he listened enough to cut back on her assignments, giving her the smaller ones, like this local job.
Stalking around his house, our sides up against it, we round the corner into the yard and head up back steps that need a paint job. Luke tries the doorknob. It jiggles, but doesn’t budge.
I elbow his back. “Look at the yard.”
He nods like he saw it, dark eyes scanning with disgust. “Fuckin’ pig sty.”
“Perfect out front, disgusting in the back,” Atlas points out.
Celia shudders.
The man who lives here has been giving handmade candy to children, when they sneak out past those trees at recess. Too many children in the classroom, mixed with underpaid teachers, there’s no way they can keep an eye on everyone.
So cliché, the candy thing, but his special lure is that he makes the stuff himself and he owns a candy shop in town, so he might be legit. Just a nice guy who likes kids. Or maybe he’s a brilliant marketer, getting them hooked on his candy so they’ll make their parents buy some. But this backyard is foul. High fences have hidden it from his neighbors on both sides. Old chairs covered with dirt, three tipped over. Piles of trash bags ripped open by inclement weather, flies buzzing around and in them. Lawn dead, mostly brown patches of beaten down garbage. Not exactly the yard of a man with a sterile candy shop.
There’s no glass in the backdoor, all wood, so Luke surveys the curtained windows on both sides, sees the locks. He mutters, “Well shit,” and tucks his gun
