The first thing I do is turn off the lights.

Not all of them—just enough to change the apartment’s silhouette from the street. Darkness doesn’t hide you. Patterns do. And patterns are what people like Yasmin read best.

Karen sits on the couch, phone in her hand, staring at the black screen like it might blink back. Dre stands near the kitchen counter, shoulders tense, trying not to pace. He fails at that within ten seconds.

I move without asking permission.

Windows first. Locks ...