The rain-slick alley was empty except for me and the hum of the streetlamp. My phone buzzed. Two minutes. That was all she sent. No name, no details — just the kind of message that meant something big was about to happen.
I leaned against the brick wall, pretending to scroll through my feed, but my eyes kept darting toward the corner. I wasn’t here to do anything — not directly. I was the lookout, the accomplice, the shadow, the silent partner who’d make sure the coast stayed clear.
Then she appeared. Black coat, hood up, that mischievous smirk I knew too well. “You’re late,” I whispered.
She shrugged, slipping something small and glinting into her pocket. “Traffic,” she said, as if this was just another grocery run.
A siren wailed somewhere far away. I tilted my head, listening. No closer. Good. I stepped aside, letting her pass, our hands brushing for just a second — the tiniest handoff.
We walked opposite directions without another word. Onlookers would have thought we were strangers. But we weren’t. We were accomplices.
Hours later, my phone buzzed again. It’s done.
That was all. And in the quiet of my apartment, I let myself smile. Not because of what she’d done, but because we’d done it together — without anyone ever suspecting.
Lacey
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