Logs:Just A Little Breaking And Entering

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Just A Little Breaking And Entering

Characters: Rhys and Odile, with Louis as ST
Date: 2019-11-23
Summary: Rhys and Odile pretend to be caterers and break into the recently killed Dr. Rachel Struppweiss' house, scare her dog, and steal some stuff.
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

This is a very pleasant, if older, house in the Mid-City neighborhood. It's two stories, with a small but well-kept garden (although most of the plants are in their dormant stages) in the front, and a plain lawn in the back, with a porch area for a grill. It looks very tidy, and very 'upper middle class' in an understated way. There's no garage, only a driveway.

Inside, the floorplan is relatively simple. Downstairs is a large living room, leading to a formal dining room and a staircase going up, with a smallish room that serves as an office on the other side of the staircase. The dining room leads to a large kitchen with an included laundry room and the back door. The staircase leads to a hallway that has two large bedrooms, and two bathrooms connected to them. The decor could best be described as 'earth tones and books', with wooden bookcases and framed photos of family and friends.


The van is clean - just not in the legitimate sense. The inside is spotless, vacuumed, and air conditioned to the point that the musk of cigarettes smoke in the upholstery is an undercurrent that will arise to haunt future owners of the car within a couple thousand miles. Though, perhaps there'll be worse histories for the sales person to conceal about this ride, yet. He'd taken it off a used car lot, having disabled the security cameras, increasing the posibility that no one will note the missing set of wheels for some time yet. And he'd made up for the barebones gas by picking up a gascan, rather than risk evidence of him with the vehicle showing up on camera - regardless of how blurred or unclear any picture might be of him, for his very nature.

Odile's sourced stickers have been applied. 'Fleur de Sel Catering', backed by a namesake motif. There's no phone number on display, though - either playing the exclusive service spread by word of mouth, or simply tying up loose ends that might arise from a neighbour trying to contact an unused number, or calling up a complete stranger.

There's not much in the back. He has a vinyl toolbag - the kind that often gets utilized for cleaners and caterers, dishclothes packed into the visible pockets, and less appropriate items of larceny and bloodshed within. It's behind his seat, its handle hooked into the receiver for his seatbelt so it doesn't slide back toward the rear doors while he's driving. Otherwise, there's room for whatever Odile has decided to bring with her.

He looks every part the edgy art student or hipster, with his scruffy facial hair and waiters outfit - button up white dress shirt, snug in the shoulders, a black tie, black slacks, and a pair of steel toed Oxfords. As he drives up to the house, one of those steel toes depresses the brake and he indicates to park on the road alongside it rather than occupying the driveway. Perhaps as not to get boxed in. He looks to his passenger, as if to gauge her readiness, before looking past her to inspect the exterior facade of the home for any remaining activity.


The woman herself radiates an air of mischievous contentment if not just for the reassurance that whoever has to claim this van again is going to have to deal with the hideous flower logo splashed on the stickers; it is enough amusement to power her for days. She doesn't even bother to hide it as she sits next to Rhys as he drives the van, legs crossed by the knee and lips blowing bubble gum between them. Unlike the last few times in which he'd met her, Odile Devereux looks absolutely nothing like how she looks normally. She looks like a completely different person, because she is a different person, and the only way he was able to verify her identity was because of her voice.

She is blond, green-eyed, young and freckled, dressed in a caterer's black-and-whites; the threads are still designer, and fit her well in this new form with the high waisted pants that follow the narrow taper of her waist and flare out down the legs, with a sleeveless button-down shirt tucked into it. There's a tie, playful, separated cuffs on her wrists, and even a beret. Louis isn't here, but he knows his friend well enough to know that, if he saw them right now, he would accurately guess that Odile specifically chose a french catering company just so she could wear a fetching beret with her ensemble...and he would be right.

"Ah, we've arrived, have we?" she wonders when the van wheels to a stop, blond ponytail flicking over her shoulder at the gestures of her head. She checks her smartphone, her pockets - all she had brought, really, are lockpicks, her phone, her wits and a pair of latex gloves. "Grand! I don't even remember the last time I actually broke into a place for the purposes of robbing it for its secrets, but I suppose there's a benefit to returning to one's beginnings now and then." She winks at Rhys, before pushing the door open and sliding out of it, moving to the back of the van to retrieve the tableware. Her mannerisms change immediately the moment she's out; her graceful, confident strides turn into a rambling, listless bent, rolling her head back and sighing the sigh of disaffected millennials everywhere. Her gestures are lazy, every line of her exuding the idea that she thinks funerals are depressing, and she doesn't really want to be here, but she desperately needs the money.

We all know what that looks like.


The house is quiet, the windows dark. No car rests in the driveway, although the mailbox is wrapped in black ribbon, and there's a small bouquet of flowers resting against the mailbox post. However, the sharp senses of vampire and changeling note what might be some worrying signs: namely, an empty food dish for a large dog on the porch.

Maybe they took it with them, when they went to arrange...the funeral. Maybe not. Other than the possible existence of a large and protective pooch, all seems quiet. If there is a dog, it's not barking at the van that has pulled up to the house, and none of the neighbors seem to be peeking.


Glimpses in the peripheral edge of the rearview mirror allow Rhys to study Odile's assumed appearance on the way to the locale, but he pays no mention - just his notice. His driving, to the letter of the law, and barely above the speed limit on their way through the near-campus streets to the address in question. Only after his inspection of the place, across Odile and through her passenger side window, does he put the van into park. "They all just kind of run together after awhile," he lies, about the break and entry ahead of them - an experience of which he's had no shortage. And everyone's lives read differently in their private quarters. He gets out of the van and shoulders his bag, looking at the cars parked on the street nearby in either direction as he closes the door before heading around the vehicle and up the driveway in the darkling's wake.

His demeanor hasn't changed - he doesn't assume identity beyond uniform and concealment. But his bored, relaxed default state of being lends well to giving the implication that he belongs here, or anywhere. His phone is in his pocket, his knife, strapped to his leg, gun, kit, tools within the bag, and his gloves are already on his hands - lightweight rubber dishwashing gloves, at that. Nothing is left behind in the van itself. He takes note of the dish and tries to turn the doorknob before either of them go ahead with trying to pick it. Meanwhile, listening close for heartbeats within range of the other side of the barrier. Canine or otherwise.


This is a nice neighborhood, filled with nice, suburban people. But it's not SO nice that people leave their doors unlocked. And just as he's tuning in, it's clear that something else with keen senses has heard the movement of the lock. There's a heartbeat, low and deep and close to the ground, and there's the scrabble of paws on carpet, and a deep, "Boof. BOOF BOOF BOOF!"


She, too, is listening for any strange sounds coming from the house as her rambling gait takes her up the porch steps and towards the front door. They belong there; no sneaking around the back for her. Green eyes take a wary slant towards the large food dish set out for the dog, giving Rhys a glance - in the end, simply confirmation that he had seen it, and an acknowledgment that there may be something they would have to deal with in the house on top of everything else that might jump at the shadows at them.

"Good god," Odile murmurs to him. "What do they have? A Great Dane?" The bowl is massive.

She waits until he tests the lock, and if it happens to be unlatched, she slips into his taller, broader shadow so he could obstruct the street's view of her, sliding her lockpick pins from her hair and--

...the dog makes its presence known and she stops. "I don't suppose you have anything in that bag that will persuade the dog that we're friends, do you?" she wonders.


Memory is a sensory experience, and there is a tick of the clock between moments that Rhys freezes with the door knob turned. The barking dog. The way the Louisiana humidity causes his dress shirt to cling to his torso and the artifice of life he has affected within it. He's some-when else, and then he's back, sniffing the air of now and forgetting 'then'. He lets go of the knob, lets it spring back around to its untouched state. He grunts, acknowledging the comment on the size of the canine within. And as to persuading it to be friends? He shakes his head. Steps back from the door to let Odile work on the lock. And says, "Got something that'll silence it." He's probably serious and doesn't sound all that torn up about it, as he stands there, keeping the darkling from sight as best he can - helping to complete the illusion that she's just trying multiple keys from the ring.

"But there's no getting around leaving a trail if I do." Other options. He looks back at the bowl, and back inside. "Probably not a trained guard dog," he possits - or hopes. "It might quiet down if we fill its bowl with whatever they've got inside." It's a risk. But a risk that doesn't involve another house with easy evidence of a felony in their wake.


"We don't want to leave a trail," Odile tells Rhys quietly, giving the house a glance and pursing her lips, before turning to her companion. "How fast can you pick the lock? I can cause a small ruckus from the outside to try and lure the dog to another side of the house, you can slip in while it's distracted and trap the dog in that room. It means we won't be able to search that room until later, but we'll still have the rest of the house." She inclines her head at him, flashes him that familiar, winsome smile. "What do you think?"


A subtle nod agrees. No trail. He unzips the top of his bag and retrieves his lockpicking kit. Several probes and a small wedge screwdriver for applying torque. Inside are several small towels, wrapped around his handgun and the detached suppressor, as well as a multitool. "It's a plan," he concedes. Probably a positive review. "Fast," he repeats in answer. "I'll listen for it moving away from the door," he adds. "If anything changes, text, don't shout. Unless you have to." He's ready to assume the role of lockpicker.


"Aren't you glad you met Louis and me? Your Friday night is shaping up to be incredibly exciting," Odile wonders rhetorically, her ever-present smile turning more mischievous by the moment. She wiggles her fingers before she attempts to slip around the house, attempting to peek through the windows to choose a room with a door to lure the dog in. She chooses the most suitable room on the first floor. The woman takes out her smartphone, shooting a quick text to give Rhys direction as to where in the house she is going to try and lure the dog.

And then, she pretends to break in the house through that window. She puts on her gloves, then reaches out to rap and rattle at the frame, tugging at the hinges in the attempt to draw the dog away from the front hallway and into the professor's office.


Of the downstairs rooms, the only one really suitable, or at all suitable is a smallish room that seems to be serving - or /served/ as the professor's office. It's relatively easy to get to from outside, and peering in the window, she can see that someone has left the door open, so when she taps...

"Boof!" It's a surprised sort of canine sound, and Rhys can hear the scrabble of claws on carpet as the dog bounds away with an "AroooRROORROO!" sort of sound. From her vantage point, Odile can see a very large, very fluffy white dog, perhaps a Great Pyranees, come bounding into the office. "BOOF BOOF BOOF!"

You are TRESPASSING, and this dog wants you to know that HE SEES YOU.


"Exciting in ways I consider dosages of chloroform to prepare for pets in the future," Rhys retorts as he squares up on the door. He gets the pick in first, playing back across the tumblers like a pianist doing scales. The screwdriver inserted locks any that he lowers to its required height into place. He makes quick work of the lock, as promised, and waits for the guardian within to be drawn away from the door. He checks his phone for the message that buzzes itself to alert within his pocket after putting the kit away, and slowly, quietly opens the front door, proving once more that he's not the brand of vampire that needs inviting inside. He steps in, pulling the door shut behind him.

Step one of the plan complete, he halts the artifice of his breath and stalks his way to the aforementioned door. Taking his sweet time and letting each step roll from the side of his foot, inward, with practice - something from training in the long years prior to these modern nights. If he makes it to the door unnoticed, he shuts it slowly, having the knob turned along the way as not to earn a telltale click when sealed.


And when the gigantic fluffy dog bounds up to the window of the office, Odile's disguised face positively beams at the furious dog and she leans further against the window, tapping her fingers against the glass. "Aren't you a pretty slobbery thing?" the woman cooes through the window. "You're just doing your job, aren't you? Are you a good girl? Or boy?" She tries to look at the collar, to see if there's a tag and the name.

As Rhys attempts to trap the dog in the woman's office, she continues to try and make friends with it. "Who's a good dog? You're a good dog! Yes you are!"

Whenever the man manages to close the door, though, she blows a kiss towards the black nose and woofing face past the glass, before she starts heading towards the front door that her companion had unlocked. Light steps carry her up to the porch and towards the front door, opening it slowly and letting it shut behind her. This time, she locks it.


Silent as a ghost, Rhys makes his way through the house; the gloom and shadows turn it into a place of mourning even more than the lilies on the dining table, or the signs of condolences cards in the living room. He no longer breathes, and his grip on the door is firm and gentle.

And yet, the dog is a valiant, brave protector. At the last minute, it turns from growling at Odile at the window, and launches itself at the door as Rhys tries to close it. He's fast, but not quite fast enough to trap it on the other side of the door - instead, now he's got a squirming Great Pyranees stuck between the door and the frame, squirming and boofing its big, fluffy heart out as it tries to get to him.


The dog turns, and Rhys' gaze locks on its. There's no freeze. Just animal instinct. He abandons stealth as the great fluffy protector throws itself toward the opening, and he does the same, sprinting across what remains of the front room and grabbing the door, using his momentum to - He's blocked but the capable servant, and exerts effort soundlessly, locked at a standstill with the Great Pyranees. Their sudden battle of non-lethality turning to frustration, and he may not even notice Odile entering when she does. He stands tall, drawing back as he sucks a needless and yet annoyed breath of air in through his nostrils. He steps back, pulls the door open before him, and looming over this massive dog with his shoulders tense, and his mouth cut into a nose-scrunching sneer, summons the spirit of every ill-suited owner on their last thread with their noble protector. "What?" he growls through his teeth, the alertness behind his eyes turned to rage as he puts forth that at once threatening and dismissive inquiry to the innocent pup.


"Boof! Boof BOOF BOOF-"

The sound cuts off as the dog locks eyes with the vampire, and is exposed to the Beast within. It scrabbles backwards with a piteous yelp, cringing down towards the carpet, its tail curled down between its legs immediately. By the time Odile enters through the unlocked door and comes down the hall, the massive dog is attempting to fit itself in the tiny space under the office desk and behind the rolly chair.

Apparently the answer to Rhys' inquiry is, "Nothing sir, please don't eat me." Except in dog.


It's a survivor's instinct; the moment she steps through the threshold and closes the door, small hairs prickle at the back of her neck, the part in all Lost that is keyed towards flight or fight endeavors suddenly lighting her skin on fire. Her back goes rigid, green eyes turning down the hall and her hands balling unconsciously into fists on her sides, in the event that she would have to flee, because she has walked in a space occupied by something absolutely dangerous.

All Odile sees is Rhys' back, but that's enough, stopping in her tracks and waiting for the standoff to finish. The growl from Rhys doesn't elicit a single sound from her, if not just because she's trying to fight down the urge to run. Thankfully, Autumn courtiers are masters of Fear.

As the large and valiant protector tries to fit itself under his owner's desk, she takes a breath and angles a look over to Rhys. "Excellent work," she murmurs, her smile returning as she reins all of her confidence back in, hooking upwards one corner of her mouth. "...you couldn't have done that earlier, though?" she wonders, mischief in those emerald depths.

With the dog cowed, she inclines her head towards the stairs. "I'll start looking at the lady professor's bedroom. Now that you've got a new friend, take the office? We'd cover more ground." A flash of a grin, before she pivots and starts moving up the steps.


The beast isn't a mask Rhys wears. It's something that lives inside. He may be successful in intensifying it for this purpose, but it doesn't go way, back into the box once it's done. The dog is cowed. And there Rhys is, looming in the doorway, his shoulders locked with tension - strained and waiting as what's inside him basks in its dominance over the lesser creature and hungers for more. The next needless breath is a deep suck of air. A calming breath that flares his nostril. He half turns his head to the sound of Odile's voice behind him. And he seethes quietly as he listens. Teeth gritting at the wondering if he might have tried earlier, grinding to a halt, clenched. He nods. "Text if need-" A dry swallow. "Stomp for immediate danger." Agreement. He'll step into the office with his 'new friend' and search there. His shoulders begin to droop back down to a natural posture. It's a gradual thing. But he walks with the confidence of a lion into the office, giving the dog within nothing - only disregard, as he starts at the desk.


The dog's whine is a low, constant keening as Rhys fails to leave the room. He presses himself more deeply into the shadows under the desk, trying to make of himself a tiny, harmless thing so that Rhys' eyes don't pass over him again. The office is cluttered in that way that suggests productivity: textbooks and academic books are stacked high, along with print outs of articles that contain phrases like, "...examine major debates in the development of this sub-discipline and discuss the complex methodological and theoretical challenges posed by field-research in urban settings, clearly identifying the significance of the anthropological paradigm in urban research..." and only getting more dense from there. To Rhys' untrained eyes, any of this could be relevant, or it could all be junk. (Incomplete clue with 1 element (the professor's work is in urban anthropology), which can be spent on a roll to uncover more clues, but NOT to solve the final mystery, nor on other rolls involved in the investigation.)

Meanwhile, Odile heads upstairs. Everything here is...nice. Not particularly flashy, not particularly poor. Just very middle class NICE. With the exception of the art on the walls, which is sparce but carefully, thoughtfully chosen. The bedroom follows this same decor scheme, with a nice queen bed, currently unmade, an inoffensive rug, and the faint, lingering scent of a perfume that will never be worn again. Odile is accustomed to searching for hidden treasures, and so it doesn't take her long to take down a framed picture of the professor and what seem to be colleagues at the university at some sort of formal event, and find a small wall safe behind it.


The decision to reinvent herself close to twenty years ago after escaping through the Hedge has brought her through spaces much like this one; there is no place more private in a woman's home than her bedroom. Gloved hands slide over the furniture, dancing lightly over the handles of the professor's drawers. There's an appraising sweep over the art in the walls, eyes landing on the signatures that she could find, otherwise there's a faint hint of approval. Her career has gotten to the point that she could tell plenty about a person just through their belongings, alone.

That and in the right hands, some of them can talk.

Finally, she stops in front of the framed picture, fingers encased in black latex curling gently on the ends and lifting it off the wall mount, setting it carefully to the side. "Hello, lovely," Odile murmurs, smoothing her fingers over the combination lock. Were this any other day, she would be attempting to sharpen her skills in this regard, but considering they're pressed for time...

She leans towards the dial, and whispers to it a secret, dark and low and laced with her French accent, to see if she can access a memory where she can discern the combination.


The vision unfolds, and Odile is standing behind the professor as she opens the safe, the combination easily discerned from her motions, and takes out a small object from the safe. A man, handsome and in his early thirties, recognizable from her vision with the mirror as Jason Lorraine, is standing nearby, looking confused, but indulgent. "Seriously, is this some sort of game? Like the ones we used to play in undergrad? Killer, or whatever?"

"No, Jason," the professor starts to say - and then seems to change her mind. "Or, I guess you could say that. If you want to think of it that way. Just don't be late, and don't screw around, okay? For me."

"I don't ever screw around," Jason says, then smiles. "Not like /that/, anyway." He takes the object: a small black flashdrive, studies it for a moment, then shrugs and pockets it. "Don't worry about it. Just tell me what this is about, when you can?"

"I will," she promises, and turns to close the safe. The vision fades, but a sense of the woman, who she is, and what she /was/, lingers in Odile's mind. As does the proper turn of the dial.


What formal education Rhys has had since the era he was born to has been selective. It's not long before his alert eyes are merely sliding across the names of titles, rather than trying to decipher them. If it were nearer to dawn, he might even try to affect a yawn - not that such an expression would do him any good. No, he's not cut out for this particular brand of research. But there is one subject with which he might gain some ground - and further torture in the process, if only with his direct attention. He squats, before the desk, looming and looking directly over the dog once more. His mouth forms a hard line as he summons the beast forward once more - not its predatory aura, but its cruel, unyielding perception. He calls it to see what he sees, to bear witness and thin the veil between the monster and this world - and to ask it direct questions, internally, to find some answers.


"Oh, my dear," Odile murmurs softly, running her fingers gently over the dial. "You were well in over your head on something, weren't you?" She clucks her tongue as she spins it around, hearing the tumblers and gauges disengage bit by bit through the metallic bowels of the wall safe, heard through the sharp senses that she has managed to cultivate in the dark.

When she hits the final number, she reaches out to grasp the handle and open it, to peer at the contents. The flash drive wouldn't be there anymore, but perhaps there'll be other things that could be of significance.


The interior of the safe has, on first glance, all of the usual, boring stuff: a copy of her passport, some bonds, the title to her car and to the house, her and her husband's social security cards and birth certificates, and other basic paperwork. A small stack of cash, mostly twenties and tens, with some smaller demoniations added. No jewelry.

But as she looks through the materials, she finds a small box, and in that box, tiny tapes - like the one's you might use in an old-school voice recorder. Tiny labels on the tables have a random-looking number, and then something that might be a date. There's about two dozen of them in here. (These tapes are a Clue, although it will take time to listen to them, or their one element can be used to boost a roll involving the investigation by 1.)

In the office, the dog's ears are drooping as far as they can droop and its whine increases in pitch as the vampire delves into its mind. It cannot speak, but there are powerful impressions. Shame and want and the competing desire to be a Good Dog, and the desire to Chew On Those Things. Rhys gets the impression of one of the cabinets, a higher cabinet on the top half of the computer desk.


Without even blinking, Odile helps herself to the most useful items within the safe; she pockets the cash into the back pocket of her slacks, and takes the copy of the woman's passport - it might be useful, later. She also takes the dead woman's social security card, though she leaves her husband's behind as well as the late professor's birth certificate. She tucks them in her other pocket. And then she reaches in further to examin the small box of tapes, checking its size and pursing her lips quietly. "Hm, more homework," she murmurs, before she tucks the entire box with her and shuts the door to the safe. She carefully replaces the portrait of the professor and her colleague upon it, and adjusts it as so.

As she slowly makes her way out of the room, she takes careful note of the photographs; family, friends. She lets her fingers dance over the details, the walls, crossing from the master bedroom to head into the second bedroom, and passes through the master bedroom's ensuite bedroom. More personal belongings would be there, wouldn't they?

Before she enters the second bedroom, she stops and looks at the countertops in an attempt to determine which 'side' of the bathroom was Professor Struppweiss' - cosmetics, brushes and the like. Once she finds it, she reaches out to touch the mirror and whispers to it again.


The high cabinet has an assortment of odd things. A pair of hand-knit gloves, made a bit clumsily. A stack of brochures from local homeless shelters, soup kitchens, and service providers. Three small, spiral-bound notebooks that seem to contain research notes. And a map of New Orleans, with several dozen marks and circles of various sizes drawn on it. There are no notes on the map about what these might mean, no marks at all. The notebooks are hand-written and dense - they would probably need to be studied at length to reveal any secrets they might have. And a background in academics might help.

It's not hard to find the side of the mirror that belongs to the professor. The vision she receives is brief and uninformative beyond the sense she's already got of the woman - she's talking to her husband about whether they should go to the new gumbo place for dinner as she styles her hair and puts on brief, subtle makeup. The vision fades quickly when she turns away.

The second bedroom is a guest bedroom, holding little personal information or items - only old clothes in the closet.


Rhys is thorough, but not slow about it. He takes up the strange gloves, and pinches his way up across them, between index finger and thumb for anything more solid than yarn before returning them. The rest - brochures, notebooks, and the map, get tucked into his fabric tool bag to take with him when they leave, after a brief skim that determines that they might be useful - at least to someone. Afterward, that particular cache raided, he flips a printout from the desk, takes a pen, and jots a quick note. 'Reminder: Get disk back from Sebastian.' He adds and underlines 'sensitive material'. Then he places the note in the cabinet and shuts it - because he doesn't play fair with who might search through this later. The pen goes back to its own holder. And he exits the office, letting his ears aid him in getting a read on what might be going on around them as he wanders, status update. He walks until he finds the laundry room, checking the lock on the back door before checking for the most recent women's clothing atop the pile in the baskets - stuff that might have been left untouched for grief, and he feels for pockets and what might be left in them.


There is women's clothing in the laundry room, a sad basket of it, already separated out from her husband's things, although unwashed. But a thorough search of the clothing reveals nothing left inside that's more incriminating than a crumpled up receipt for a local donut shop.


He'd hear her easily enough, those breezy, effortlessly confident strides taking her down swiftly from the stairs. Odile emerges from the threshold of the main living area and into the laundry room where he's busy searching through the woman's belongings. There's a triumphant smile, fingers absently drumming over the box of tapes she has recovered. "It'll take some poring through, but I found a safe...and a memory. We can talk about both later." There's a curious glance at the pockets he's rifling. "Did you find anything in the office?"


Rhys looks at the surface of the receipt, smoothing it out with a gloved thumb. He reads date, if it's listed, and does his best to commit the locale to memory after reading the contents. He tucks it into the bag, as well, rearranging for the gun to be over what he has recently collected. Maybe it's nothing. It's probably nothing.

Odile joins him and his attention leaves the laundry. A raised brow at the mention of a found memory, but not inquiry there for the time being. A grunt. Respectful, for the box of tapes drummed over. 'Good find,' so to speak - or to not speak. He asks, "You got into it?" Just to confirm the source of that box. "Notes, marked map of the city, brochures for homeless services," he summarizes - about as best he can understand what's been collected. And he dips his head toward the front of the house, past her, before heading in that direction. He checks the time and moves toward the entry - against the service, and when it started. He has another line of thought, looking for any place one might hang hats - particularly colorful ones, on his way toward one of the front windows. He looks out, toward the street, for any vehicles not matching those that were there when they arrived and anything else awry.


All seems well in the house, with no sounds or changes out of place, aside from the sad little whine of the big fluffy dog. While Rhys finds he doesn't /entirely/ remember the placement of certain items, or that car down the street - Odile is fairly certain that nothing of note has changed since they arrived. A check of the time reveals that the main part of the service should be approaching its end; it's likely a good idea to leave, soon.


He asks her if she got into the safe and Odile simply flashes him an unforgivably brilliant smile; enough to confirm his suspicions while refraining from any clarification towards the actual methology. She follows his line of sight to the front of the house, letting him through first before she follows. "If that information is at all relevant for what she was doing, I may be edging you out on our wager, monsieur," she banters lightly, turning her own sharp gaze and acute senses to her surroundings and letting them radiate outward. He may be a man of little words, but they bandied around the possibility of the house being surveiled by other persons of interest just the evening before. This is what she checks for.

Her relief is so palpable that her companion can easily detect it; the proud line of her shoulders bleeds away a certain degree of tension that she isn't aware she's carrying, a soft exhale leaving her lips. "I think we're in the clear," she murmurs to the vampire. With the sad little whine from the big dog, if he allows, she reaches down to ruffle his ears and scratches his scruff. "It's alright, love, you were only doing your job and I'm sure you miss your maman terribly. Don't worry, I'll protect you from the big bad man."

A teasing smile angled Rhys' way, her words don't necessarily follow her expression: "We should go before we push our luck any further."


The dog does not bite the hand that reaches into the space where he's hiding under the desk to give him a pat, but neither does he look particularly pleased. He approves of none of your shenanigans. None.


"I still might be tempted to double down," Rhys retorts dryly with regard to said wager. And he squints, trying to summon memory and set it against the view of what he sees outside. He can't be entirely certain what has or hasn't changed. But he sees no immediate danger, either, for his failings. He eases away from the window when he notes Odile's relief, but does not move toward the dog as she does. He doesn't even look toward it - truly avoidant. A cursory glance around for anything out of order or strange that they might not have clued in on during first arrival. And not even a grunt at the tease as Odile speaks to the fluffy guardian of this domicile. He nods, though, at her conclusion. The tension of his beast seemingly having all but faded from his stature. He goes to the door and opens it for the both of them, turning the lock open in the process that she had secured behind them. "We've got a ride to ditch, yet."


"If you do, I'll have to call your bet and we'll have to adjust the wager to reflect the higher stakes," Odile replies, with the easy smile of a habitual risk taker. "What is a woman to do when you challenge her that way, after all?" With the door open, she steps through, a brief incline of her head in acknowledgment regarding the decorated (vandalized) stolen van. "We do," she tells him. "Worry not, we have a ride waiting to spirit us away once we properly dispense with it."

The night, after all, holds many secrets. They're simply adding one more to the pot.

She starts walking back to the van once Rhys shuts the door back up to the residence.