Don't Look Now by Michelle Gagnon

outside, a few degrees above freezing, and she didn’t appear to be enjoying the weather any more than he was.
    Peter hurried up behind her. She glanced up as he approached, and he threw her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
    She frowned. Peter rushed through the story he’d spent the past hour concocting. “Hey, I forgot my keys. So glad you showed, I can’t get my folks on the phone. . . .”
    The woman’s frown deepened as the baby started wailing. She bent over, retrieved a toy, and shook it furiously in the child’s face, which only served to make it scream harder.
    “Want a hand?” Peter offered.
    The woman grunted and produced a key ring, then handed it to Peter. There were at least ten keys on it. He sifted through them, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
    “Gold one,” she directed.
    “Right. Mine looks just like it,” he said with relief, finding a gold key on the ring. He inserted it into the lock, then held the door as she shoved the stroller through. The woman stopped inside the doorway and turned to stare at him.
    “Yes?” he asked, terrified that she’d guessed something was off.
    “Keys?” she said pointedly.
    “Oh, yeah.” He handed them over. She dumped them unceremoniously back in her purse and marched to the elevator, jabbing the up button. As the doors slid open, he bent to tie his shoe. “Don’t hold it,” he called out. “I’ll just catch the next one.”
    The doors slid shut. Peter quickly got to his feet. He’d scanned the directory closely, and was pretty sure Mason lived in the top floor unit, which was listed under the initials “M.C.” That had to be Maurer Consulting. He waited until the elevator light stopped at the fifth floor. After counting to ten in his head, he hit the recall button. As the elevator descended, he fidgeted. What he was about to do was highly illegal, and really, really dangerous. What if Mason didn’t live alone? Or if he had some sort of super high-tech security system installed?
    He’d just have to risk it. Getting inside that apartment was his only shot at finding out more about Mason and his goons. He pictured Amanda circling him in the parking lot, which hardened his resolve.
    Peter got on the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor. It seemed to take forever for the car to ascend, ticking past each floor so slowly that by the time the doors finally slid open, Peter was shaky from adrenaline.
    He stepped off the elevator into a fancy hallway, like something in a hotel. There was a door at either end. In between them sat an elaborate marble table with an enormous orchid perched on top. Peter cracked his knuckles nervously as he checked the corners: no cameras in sight. Score one for him.
    He made his way to the door on the right, where a brass 32 hung. His pulse quickened as he bent to examine the lock. A basic dead bolt, just what he’d been hoping to find. Peter dumped his backpack on the floor and dug a tool out of the outer pocket.
    Boston’s finest spy store was only a few blocks away from Mason’s apartment. Peter had been there before to check out all the cool gadgets. Today marked the first time he’d bought anything, though. He’d pretty much emptied his bank account purchasing a variety of different items. Including a master key that promised to open “any and all dead bolts, regardless of brand.”
    He hadn’t wanted to use it on the building’s front door, though; if it hadn’t worked, it could’ve attracted unwanted attention. So this was the moment of truth.
    Saying a small prayer, Peter inserted the key into the lock and turned it.
    A click as the bolt gave.
    Peter exhaled, and paused. This was it. Now he was officially crossing the line into breaking and entering.
    Feeling like he was stepping off a cliff into a void, Peter opened the door and entered the apartment . . .
    . . . and blinked in surprise. He was standing on the edge of a large living space. Light streamed through the