Page 67 of All The Pretty Little Lies

“Enough,” he snarls.

I open my mouth to protest, but the words die on my lips as I catch sight of movement at the clinic's entrance. A middle-aged woman in scrubs exits, her keys jangling as she locks the door behind her. The last rays of sunlight glint off her name tag, but we're too far away to make out the name.

"Look," I whisper, unnecessarily. Zaire's already laser-focused on the scene before us.

We watch in tense silence as the woman makes her way to a beat-up Honda Civic parked a few spaces down from us. She fumbles with her purse, pulls out her car keys, and climbs in.The engine sputters to life, and she pulls out of the parking lot, disappearing around the corner.

The street falls eerily quiet. The convenience store's neon sign flickers to life, casting a sickly green glow over the empty sidewalk. A stray newspaper tumbles across the asphalt, driven by a gust of wind. The laundromat's windows are dark, the only movement inside the hypnotic spinning of a lone washing machine.

"That's our cue," Zaire mutters, reaching for the door handle. “Did you hack the alarm system?”

“You wound me.” I show him my phone with the system’s live feed on the screen. “They won’t even know we were here.”

“Good, let’s go.”

The weight of what we're about to do settles over me like a heavy blanket. Breaking and entering, theft of medical records, it's not exactly a typical Tuesday night activity, even for us.

As we step out of the car, the cool evening air hits me, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass and distant barbecue. It's such a normal, suburban smell that it feels almost absurd given what we're about to do.

We move quickly and quietly across the street, sticking to the shadows cast by the buildings. Zaire leads the way, his movements fluid and purposeful. I follow, trying to mimic his grace but feeling more like a lumbering elephant in comparison.

As we reach the clinic's door, Zaire pulls out a small leather case from his jacket pocket. The lock picks inside glint in the dim light as he selects two slender tools.

"Keep watch," he murmurs, crouching down to work on the lock.

I turn my back to him, scanning the street. The world seems to hold its breath. No cars pass, no pedestrians wander by. It's as if the universe is conspiring to give us this moment of uninterrupted criminal activity.

Behind me, I hear the soft click of the lock giving way. Not a single alarm goes off audibly. Zaire’s hand reaches back, pulling me with him as he opens the door.

“Told you I hacked it.”

As we slip inside the darkened clinic, the antiseptic smell hits me like a wall. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim emergency lighting, revealing a maze of corridors and closed doors. Zaire nods towards the reception area, and I make a beeline for the computer terminal while he starts searching the rooms.

I slide into the receptionist's chair, wincing at the soft squeak it makes in the silence. My fingers fly over the keyboard, bringing the system to life. The login screen glows an eerie blue in the darkness, casting strange shadows across the desk, which is cluttered with patient pamphlets and half-empty coffee mugs.

"Come on, baby," I mutter, cracking my knuckles before diving into the system. It's more secure than I expected for a small-town clinic, but nothing I can't manage. Lines of code scroll across the screen as I work my magic, each keystroke bringing me closer to breaching their defenses.

Time seems to stretch and compress as I work, the world narrowing down to just me and the computer. I'm vaguely aware of Zaire's footsteps echoing through the clinic, doors opening and closing as he searches.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only about twenty minutes, I'm in. "Gotcha," I whisper triumphantly, allowing myself a small fist pump.

I hear Zaire's footsteps approaching just as I start digging through the patient records. "Any luck?" I ask without looking up.

"Found the storage room, but it's locked," he replies, his voice tight with frustration. "Some kind of keycard system. What about you?"

"Just got in," I say, fingers still flying across the keyboard. "Give me a sec."

I pull up the records for the date and time I had previously uncovered, scanning through the entries. My heart races as I spot a familiar name.

"Holy shit," I breathe. "Zaire, look at this."

He leans over my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck as he reads the screen. "Is that?"

There in black and white on the computer screen is a file named Rossi.

"Open it," Zaire demands, his voice a harsh whisper in the stillness of the clinic.

My fingers tremble as I click on the file, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure Zaire can hear it. The screen flickers, and suddenly we're staring at a treasure trove of medical records, each one a damning piece of evidence.

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