Page 15 of Princess of Thieves

“Miss, if you don’t mind,” Rosa glances nervously at the hall, “I have a lot of cleaning to do, and—”

“Oh, no, no,” I say hurriedly. “Go ahead. I’ll let you know if I need anything, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

She ducks her head and disappears.

As soon as she’s out of sight, I decide I’m going to have to do a little light breaking and entering. But it’s not like Guy didn’t do the same thing when he sent his goons down to Uncle John’s garage. Sure, he might have been trying to help me—or so heclaims. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was a crime, and anyway, I’m not here to do anything illegal. I literally just want what’s mine.

His office is on the first floor at the end of a long hallway from the front foyer. The door is thick, heavy, and locked with a keypad, no less. I don’t even bother trying the thumbprint scanner, because that’ll be a no-go. Instead, I try to think of the most obvious combination that Guy would use.

Two problems with that, I think, staring at the lock. First of all, I don’t really know what combination of numbers would mean anything to him. And second of all, what if he has some kind of log that sees who came in and out? He would know that he didn’t unlock his office.

So that’d be an obvious problem.

But then, what if...

On a whim, I punch in R-O-S-A and the pound key, and it unlocks. That was almost too easy. I feel bad for using Rosa’s login, but I’m sure she does actually come in here to vacuum or whatever—not the sort of thing that would necessarily draw suspicion.

Inside, it’s beautifully appointed, like a lawyer’s office in a TV ad where he’d sit at the thick mahogany desk and promise to get the money you’re owed for your personal injury lawsuit. The bookcases are tall, the windows are wide and framed with heavy blood-red drapes, and the walls are decorated only with diplomas. Well, aren’t you fancy? I think. Fortunately, there’s also a laptop computer sitting on the desk. I scramble to it and tap the keyboard to wake it up.

Of course, it’s password protected too. Duh, I think. I really didn’t think too much of this through, and now I’m wasting all this time not getting the information I need.

Password, I think.Password. What would Guy pick?

I try a few combinations of his name and random easy ones like Enter123 and password, but his InfoSec is a little stronger than that.Shit, I think, chewing my lip. I sit back in the heavy leather office chair and try to think. As I do, my eyes drift to the wall and the diplomas.

That’s something he’d always want to remember, I reason. What the hell? I punch it in: UVA2015.

The screen flashes and shakes its head at me, but this time I get a hint:Remember, passwords must contain a special character, it reminds me.

Okay, have it your way. UVA2015!

The screen blinks and unlocks.

Open sesame.I’m in. I can’t resist smiling a little, feeling like a master hacker, even though what I did was more a result of Guy picking something obvious than me being an expert with computers. But I don’t have much time. I call up the browser and try to think where to start. Google searches flash through my head:How to recover my inheritance, how to get into a bank account I own but don’t know where it is, how to get an ID card.

That one seems the most obvious, so I pull up the Virginia DMV.

Obviously, I’m not going to try to pass a driver’s test just now. Icouldpass, I think, if you put me behind the wheel, but who knows where my medical history is right now? I really just need anything that proves I am who I say I am...and it looks like a non-driver’s license photo ID is going to require a certified copy of my birth certificate, which I don’t know if I could find, even if one exists out there. If Uncle John ever had it, he probably used it to wipe barbecue sauce off his mouth years ago.

Behind me, on the bookshelf, a mantel clock ticks obnoxiously loud. I don’t have a ton of time, so I bookmark that information and try to move on to something new. I’m sink into the chair, trying to remember which bank Daddy used—because that’s the sort of thing a twelve-year-old would have paid attention to—when an email flashes at the bottom of the screen.

Re: Document Request (Attached)

I don’tmeanto read Guy’s email, but it isright there...so I click it.

Mr. Gisbourne,

Found the records for the Sanders case you need. Defendant seems to be lying about their residency. Attached Social Security claims are likely fabricated given DOB. LMK if you need more info.

Dawn.

As soon as I read the email, I set it to unread, heart thrumming.

My mind is going a thousand miles a minute. Guy is an assistant district attorney. He can get any documents he needs becausethat’s part of his job. Ifheasked for them, andImanaged to get a copy in my hands...well, it wouldn’ttechnicallybe legal,exceptfor the part where I am owed all these things that are mine in the end, and I’m just using a roundabout way to get them.

I do a quick moral inventory before I decide. I’m breaking the law in the name of the greater good...butnotthe same way the four shifters claimed they were. That was something else entirely. I’m not taking something that isn’t mine, even if I think someone has a better claim to it or deserves it more. I’m literally just catching up from where I should have been my whole life. That means I’m still not like them.

Right?

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