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grateful for the lock pick kit I remembered. I grab the ponytail holder on my wrist and tie my hair back, all the while trying to psych myself up for work.
    I know why he is being an ass. He doesn’t want me getting killed or caught, in that order. Miller is the master at throwing curveballs my way. He only does this shit to try and make me back out which, in turn, only makes me more determined. The familiar release of the lock sends my already pumping adrenaline into overdrive; I love my job.
    I ease in, shutting and locking the door behind me. The thought to return anything I move back to its precise location goes through my mind. I know instinctively that this man is going to carry OCD traits. It goes with his job description.
    I flip through the mail on a side entrance table as I wait to make sure there are no pets in here, specifically dogs. I certainly don’t need my presence made known by some yapping ankle biter, or worse, a guard dog. I’m already pretty certain there is no threat of a dog or he would be at the door barking by now but if I have learned anything in this job so far, it’s to not take anything for granted. There’s nothing but junk here and I’m just about to move on when the unthinkable happens; the son of a bitch pulls back up to the house. I quickly lay the mail back down the way I found it and head up the stairs and into the master bedroom. I drop to the floor and roll under the bed.
    My mind is a clusterfuck of chaos. Where’s Miller? Is he going to come in and kill this guy and then rescue the woman? I’m so pissed at him right now for sending me in here. Visions of beating his ass are at the forefront of my mind when I look over and see his feet—high polished business shoes—and I know it’s the doctor.
    I am absolutely, undeniably, cocksure convinced this man can hear my heart beating out of my chest. I just know he is going to bend down and say, “Boo!” Looking over and seeing the bed skirt bunched up convinces me that he has seen me. I’m absolutely sure I am going to die of a fear induced heart attack before he even has the chance to kill me when he bends down to straighten it and then rises to walk towards the closet, retrieving something I can’t see. He turns and walks from the room and all I can’t think is don’t breathe, he’ll hear you.
    I have never been as relieved as I am right now when hear his hard soled shoes making their way over the wood floors and exiting the front door.
    Miller, I’m going to kill you.
    I wait a couple of minutes and roll from beneath the bed. I still have to present Miller with proof that the woman is being held here or that sadistic son of a bitch is going to leave me here. I can just see me now, trudging through the ghetto in a mini-skirt.
    I’m going to strangle you in your sleep, you sadistic asshole!
    My blood is boiling. I’m so pissed at Miller right now but I use it to my advantage. I quietly make my way down the steps and view a woman cuddled up with a blanket, asleep in a cage. My anger with Miller is quickly redirected towards this heinous individual who has committed the atrocity of caging this woman for research so he can gain a little notoriety. He’s crazy, and he calls people like me crazy? Oh, the irony. One of the hardest things I will ever do is to walk away from this woman and leave her in the care of this mad man.
    I snap the picture with my phone and I rapidly make my way to the front door, doing a quick mental once over that I returned everything as it was. I walk with purpose and make my way to the passenger door with intentions of smacking Miller’s smug face when I get seated in the car. He is ready for it and he grabs my flailing fists as I attempt to beat the shit out of him.
    He’s laughing; he thinks this is funny. I fail to see the humor in it.
    “You could have gotten me killed, you smug bastard!”
    “And yet here you sit.” He holds out his hand for the proof I was sent in to get.
    “You have the