Chapter Five

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Garren

Silence screams. Garren stands behind his friend as he nudges open the door, somehow picking the lock without an alarm going off. This house looks like it's riddled with them, especially given it's a cop's house. He's pretty well off, Garren thinks as a shadowy, spacious living room and kitchen is revealed.

Jacin creeps inside, his footsteps quieter than they were back at the prison. "Rich asses." He kisses his teeth, shaking his head as he ventures further into the house.

Garren follows after him, scanning the darkness of the area. The white counter tops and gray carpet seem to glow with grandness. Everything is spotless and neat. He feels like no one actually lives here, and it's one of those billion dollar houses that you see in magazines. I feel too dirty to even be inside the house. "Are you sure this cop was dirty?" he asks, watching his friend look around the kitchen. Don't think he'll find any greasy fries here. Or anything greasy. His eyes land on a silver laced bowl full of shiny, polished apples. Who leaves fruit out of the fridge? Even so, his stomach rumbles. At least it's fresh, which the prison food is anything but.

Jacin follows his gaze. "Maybe we should raid the fridge too, huh?" he remarks, his white teeth gleaming in the dark. He's asking too many questions, goddamn, he thinks, scanning the pearly walls of the place. Don't wanna have to shut him up. A lump forms in his throat at the thought. He couldn't if he tried. Need to keep him on my side. "And yes, he was dirty. Why else would I do this?"

Garren stares at his friend, sympathy swelling in his chest despite the erratic beat of his heart. "Because you wanted to start over, have a new life." That's the only reason Garren bothered to break out. He knew it was better not to make friends in prison. Except he did, and what choice did he have but to help his friend?

Close enough. Jacin sets his jaw. "Damn right I do," he replies, turning his head to the living room. "Now let's get looting this shit. Grab anything that looks expensive. I'll do downstairs, you do upstairs. In and out. Got it?" He wriggles out a gun from his jacket.

Garren freezes, his eyes widening. Suddenly, he can see the dark a whole lot clearer. "Where the fuck did you get that?" he demands, fighting the urge to put his hands up and freeze some more. Not that bullets ever hurt him, but he never liked guns.

Jacin rolls his eyes and gestures the gun towards the kitchen. "Was in the drawer," he answers, giving him a bored look. "Now go upstairs and find some shit."

Garren nods once, but only turns towards the stairs once his friend moves into the living room. He looks up at the top of the stairs, the blackness deepening with each step up. Something churns inside his gut. I'm robbing a house, he thinks, his knees weakening as he starts up the stairs. Never, in all the time he spent rotting away in the corner of a prison cell, did he ever think he'd be doing something like this. Except he is, and there's no turning back from it.

The gray carpeted steps don't even creak. He still steps slowly, cautiously. No one's home, he reminds himself. Which is odd, given the guy is a cop. His heart feels like a fist, knocking hard on the door of his chest. His fingers trace the top of the dark wooden railing, and he turns his head to inspect either side of the hallway. This has three levels, doesn't it? A frown overcomes his face as he tries to recall the outside of the house. He sees another small set of stairs down one hallway. Why would you need three levels?

Garren glances behind him, down into the abyss of the kitchen-living room. He strains to hear Jacin, but all he hears is silence. "Shit," he breathes out, flicking his tongue over his dry lips. I'm really doing this. He starts down the left hallway, where two doors blend in with the pristine white walls.

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