Mark shoved his way around the bumper, trying to open the sedan’s trunk with his hands bound in front of him.

“The back seat, you idiot,” Vanessa snapped, dragging the power cord along the concrete path.

They jammed the corner of the television into the rear door frame, the plastic scraping against the window glass.

Arthur Sterling leaned closer to me and cleared his throat softly.

“Marcus the locksmith is on his way back over,” Arthur whispered.

“He’ll have the new heavy-duty deadbolt installed before four o’clock.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” I said.