If there’s no one inside, there’s someone keeping guard down the block. Probably the same guy was there yesterday, watching from behind a neat hedge or something, reporting on what I’d done.

And if he was on the phone to the men in the Tesla… well, that means they could be here any minute.

And that means I have exactly one chance to search the house. If I leave now, they’ll change the code, they’ll up the guard even more, and I’ll never get inside again.

It’s literally now or never.

“You better run before someone catches you,” Shimmy says, eyes darting back to the road.

“No,” I say, spinning around again. “I’m going to do what I came to do.”

“And I’m coming with you. I can help,” Shimmy says quickly. “I can stand guard, let you know if someone is coming.”

No way, I want to say, but we’re running out of time, and arguing with him is just not worth the precious minutes.

Besides, maybe it would be helpful to have a warning if the men are back. Not that it will really help; how will we get out of here, anyway?

I hold the door open for Shimmy, and we let ourselves in through the glass-paneled inner door, into the main part of the house. There’s a window that looks out to the street, and Shimmy stations himself behind the curtain, peeking out to see if anyone’s coming.

I look around.

Think. Think. I don’t have long, someone could be here any minute. Where to start? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

Downstairs, there’s a painfully clean kitchen with almost nothing inside it, just a huge jar of coffee and a tired-looking kettle on the counter with a stack of coffee cups, some stirrers, and a sugar cannister.

The next room is equally bare; a couch, some magazines, and a closet with a few paperbacks and a card game inside it.

The next room is locked, which probably means it’s important, but I don’t have time to look for a key, so after glancing into a bathroom, a pantry, and a long, narrow dining room that looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1900s — seriously, the dust is thick — I sprint up the stairs.

Maybe I’ll have better luck there.

Some of the rooms are clean and empty; others look more lived in, with clothing in the closets, the scent of aftershave, a pair of glasses, a jacket hanging on a chair. Each room has a desk, and I open and close drawers at random, shuffling through papers and books and files. Nothing seems familiar, and nothing seems important either. I mean, any top secret information would probably be kept in a—

My heart jumps to my throat.

There, underneath a stack of legal-looking documents in the second desk drawer in the fourth room, is a file.

A file with a picture of my father staring up at me from the front cover.

Except that… it doesn’t look like the Abba I know. It’s him, but without a beard. And without a yarmulke. My hands are shaking so hard, I don’t know how the file gets from the drawer into my hands, or how I close the drawer and sit down on the bed to open it. There’s blood pounding in my head, in my ears, and I forget the time, where I am, and what might be happening around me. I just need to open to see—

The door bursts open. Shimmy almost tumbles into the room, freckles standing out on a chalk white face.

“They’re here. Two men… they’re coming….”

Even as he’s speaking I can hear a door open, voices, and we look at each other in terrified silence before diving into a closet and pulling the door shut behind us.

We can’t hear much from inside the closet. The file I’m still clutching is pressing into me, and Shimmy’s knees are poking into my ribs. The closet is filled with men’s suits and shirts, and it’s a little… crowded.

We hear sounds of people moving around, coming closer.

“…sure he saw two boys entering here? How would they even know the code to get in? I’m telling you, I don’t think it’s likely.”

“He saw them come down the block and bike into the property. And the first boy followed us yesterday. Apparently.”

There’s a shuffling around, a door opening, another one closing.

“…Rick thinks too much of him. The guy reads too many spy novels, and he thinks everyone’s a suspect. Those boys probably cut through behind the house, to the woods out back, and biked home.”

“Maybe.” The men are right here now, in the room we’re hiding in. If they open the closet… if either of us makes a sound… we’re done for.

“Shouldn’t have left my room open, anyway. I doubt any kids can get in here, but it’s not a wise move, even if one of the others come back. Can’t be too careful.”

And then, somehow, the men are gone from the room, we hear the door click shut, and the voices fade.

Have they gone?

We wait for what feels like an hour, but is probably only several painfully long minutes, and then I breathe, “Think we can come out now?”

Shimmy stirs. “Maybe we can look out the window or something? See if the car’s still there?”

“Yeah, good idea.” I stretch, take a deep breath, and then, because someone’s got to take charge around here, I push open the closet door, a little, then a little more.

Nothing happens.

I push it open all the way, stand up, and stretch with a sigh of absolute relief.

It’s all quiet, and when I look out of the window, there’s no car in the driveway.

“I think we can come out,” I say.

“Whew,” Shimmy exhales, and suddenly, we look at each other and erupt into weird, relieved giggles.

The relief, though, is premature.

Because when we head to the bedroom door to let ourselves out, we find it’s been locked from the outside.

The windows are barred. The door is locked. And the two of us are totally trapped.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Treeo, Issue 1003)