The lock clicks, and I gently push the door open. I spin my bobby pin between my gloved index and middle fingers, feel a smile twitching at my lips, and then shove it back into the midst of the sleek bun I always wear for these types of jobs. I stretch my vision through the darkness that is Mr. and Mrs. Gray’s darkened brownstone, searching for any sign of life or light that might give me away. I linger by the door, covered head to toe in black, like a thief, intent on stealing from a bunch of fancy rich people. In fact, that’s exactly what I was. You see, I’m what you’d probably call a burglar. I prefer to be called a Remander of Lost Things (and Ideas) or just The Vigilante if you’d like. I return things. To myself and my employers, that weren’t originally mine, but that the current owner certainly doesn’t deserve to have. 
So that’s why I find myself, every Monday night without fail, using my trusty hairpin to pick the locks of the homes belonging to the New York elite. (And yes, I do realize this is the most cliche scheme in the book, but it wouldn’t be a cliche if lots of people didn’t do it). I only took what they had and wouldn’t miss in addition to the things they told me to take, things that my sister and I would cherish and use, unlike these rich people who barely noticed all they had.
I begin to move forward, into the brownstone, when I hear a loud clang from outside. I immediately rush to the windows, delicate as a deer, brush the curtains open and look out. Darkness blankets the city, and I can’t see anything in the alley underneath the windows or the building just across from where I stand. Just to be safe, I snap the curtains shut and move further into the house.
My feet barely graze the floor, as I slide, Mission Impossible style, through the brownstone, carefully avoiding obstacles that threaten to expose me (chaise lounges, huge sofas, glass coffee tables: I’m looking at you!). I keep my eyes roaming for any kind of valuable things--money, rarities, the family jewels (some people do just leave them lying around--you’d be surprised at how often that happens). 
The curtains are closed in the study, so I know that there is no danger at me being seen from the outside, but I keep my feet gliding, just as I have been taught, always alert, for any kind of thing that could give me away. The people who pay me to do this would be happy to see me following their training to the T.
Remembering my boss’ instructions, I skate past the desk (hello, legal stuff!), through the kitchen (well hey there, swanky granite), and find the stairs at the back of the house. The railing is as smooth as our old house in the suburbs, but we don’t even have a railing in our studio we live in now. As I stroke the railing, I remember my sister’s face when our parents told us we were moving to the city.
“Why do we have to move, Cleo? I have all of my friends here,” Samantha says, her eyes and mouth turning down in unison.
“Daddy found better work in the city, Samantha. We’ll make new friends anyway.”
“Where will we live? Will we have to share a room? I don’t want to share a room with you!”
“I’m sure we won’t have to share, don’t worry.”

We never did share a room, because the day after we moved into our studio apartment, which doesn’t have more than one room anyway, our parents died in a car accident.

“We’re sorry for your loss, girls,” The Man With the Sharp Features and no shadow of a grin said to us, “But we are going to help you.”
“How?” I asked.
“If you do what we say, we can help you: make sure no one splits you and your sister up, give you money to keep this apartment.
“What do I have to do?”
The Man With the Sharp Features’ mouth split into a grin.

I blink my eyes, once, twice (for some reason this helps me pop out of my thoughts), and climb the stairs. The Man had told me there was a safe upstairs where Mr. and Mrs. Gray kept all of their valuables, so that’s where I headed (and obviously to see if there was anything Samantha and I can use).
There is something different about this job. It is more “important” somehow. The Man had told me that there is something worth a lot of money in this safe and that something “bad” would happen if I mess it up (though how they’ll find out what I’m doing while I’m inside, I have no idea).
The stairway ends at the beginning of a hallway and I creep down the hall, looking left, right, left for a room that looks like it might contain a safe.
The only room on the floor that looks relatively important is the bedroom. I sneak inside and look around, trying to see the best I can through the dark room. I don’t dare turn on any lights just in case there’s some nosy neighbor that happens to be looking in.
I check the closet, behind the pumps, gowns, jeans and t-shirts, but there is no safe. I don’t have any luck behind the massive headboard either, or behind the dresser drawers where I had found the checks last week.
On the last wall not covered by windows, the headboard, or the dresser, there is a lone painting. There’s no way, I think, That’s way too cliche. But I step over to the painting anyway. I test out the heavy-looking golden frame, try lifting it to see if there’s even a chance that this garish abstract painting of what looks like dancing fruit (no disrespect to fruit, of course). To my surprise, the painting lifts easily off the wall, and lo and behold, there is a heavy metal door secured only with an easy-to-pick MasterLock.
Once again, I yank my bobby pin from my hair and wriggle it into the lock, finding myself grinning with the thrill of picking yet another lock. My heart begins to beat faster and faster, as the door to the safe opens, revealing a shiny set of pearls--real ones, as I can tell by the sheen of them. I grab the necklace, which seems to be the only inhabitant of the safe, and throw it into the bag that hangs at my waist. The Man will be very pleased.
As I close the safe, and hang the painting, eager to get out of here and home to Samantha, I begin to move towards the doorway and the stairs beyond. Something drags me back, like the riptide in the ocean during a storm.
What if there’s something in the dresser, like there was last time, something I could bring home for Samantha? I think. Against my better judgement (but since I’m already here), I slide quickly over to the drawers, and yank one open. Frantic now, since I want, need, to leave, I shuffle through the contents of the drawer. Empty boxes (no thank you), tags from new clothing (boring), and old makeup (not for me), fill the drawer, but way at the back, I feel a thick envelope. I draw it out, and it is marked simply, Abigail. I rip it open, and hundred dollar bills look up at me.
This could feed Samantha and me for months, I think, We could pay the rent on time.
From outside, I hear a muffled noise, and I am about to shove the envelope into my bag, but the window is suddenly drawn open, and a woman, just a little older than me, is revealed. She stands just outside the window, on the fire escape in the alley.
“HEY!” She yells, louder, “THAT’S MINE! DON’T-”
I drop the money to the ground, and it slides a little bit on the waxed floor. I look up to meet the woman’s eyes; the shock and horror I feel portrayed in my eyes is mirrored in hers.
I hear a bang coming from behind me, snapping louder than what I can only think is a sonic boom, and our eye contact is broken as the woman falls off of her perch on the fire escape,  her camera and bag dropping along with her.
Unable to force my feet to move, unable to see if the woman was okay, unable to even think about going after her, I stand, planted on the floor.
She was just shot, I think, She might have just been killed.
My breathing is rough, but I finally muster my feet enough to gingerly step over to the window, and peer down into the alleyway (it seems to almost be too deep to be a real alleyway. It’s like an abyss really).
When I can’t see the bottom of the alleyway, I look across the gap to the next apartment window. A single silhouette stands in the lone lit window.
It is The Man. He’s holding a gun. The window is open.
Who have I been working for this whole time?! I think.
I almost turn and run, at that moment, but-- No, I think, He won’t get me too. This isn’t right. I’ve got to stop him and what he’s doing.
The Man’s features seem to sharpen even more as he raises the gun once more, but my mind has already grieved, coped, and moved on. I see the window where the woman was standing behind and make a beeline for it, no longer attempting to be quiet. Throwing the camera and bag over my shoulder, I vault out the window and onto the fire escape.
I say a quick apology to Mr. and Mrs. Gray (they are going to find a dead body in their alleyway tomorrow morning anyway), and then descend down the clanging stairs of the escape, into the dark abyss that awaits me at the bottom.