Look Closer

60

Thursday, October 27, 2022

I’m probably just being paranoid, with everything about to happen. Maybe the guilt I’m feeling over what I’m about to do to Vicky is skewing my perception.

But it sure feels like Vicky has been different. More solicitous. More affectionate.

She got into bed with me last night. Usually, I’m early to bed, early to rise, and she’s the night owl, in bed well after midnight, sleeping until eight or nine.

But last night, she came to bed with me.

“Want some company?” she said.

I didn’t know what to do. I felt so conflicted. I’m with you now, Lauren, in every way but officially, and so I felt suddenly like sleeping with my wife would be cheating on you.

Oh, how things turn. And how awkward and painful it was when I made up an excuse about not feeling well.

But I’m just being paranoid, right? It’s just a coincidence that now she’s suddenly taking an interest in me again.

It must be. Vicky couldn’t possibly suspect a thing.

61 Vicky

Nobody pays attention to a woman in workout clothes, power walking through a neighborhood, headphones on, even if nobody recognizes her, even if she tends to stop on the sidewalk outside a particular house every day. For men, it’s different. Strange men who linger are creepy, potential stalkers, someone to keep an eye on. A woman? A woman can walk a regular route every day and nobody will notice.

From what I can tell, nobody’s noticed me all these weeks, casually passing Lauren’s house, sometimes stopping briefly, but just briefly, looking down at my phone like I just got an important text that stopped me in my tracks. I’m just a harmless female, after all.

Sometimes I drive by her house instead of walking, but a car is different, more noticeable, more likely to arouse curiosity. I only use the car at night, and only for a few minutes.

During the daylight hours, though, like right now at eight-thirty on a Thursday morning, passing her house on foot is the preferred option. And, of course, I can rig my route so that I circle back and pass her house a second time if need be.

Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank, to her credit, has not altered much of her daily routine, even with the changing of the seasons. Around eight every morning, she goes for a three-mile run through Grace Village. She still keeps a regular tennis appointment at ten-thirty in the morning, every weekday, at the Grace Country Club. She still has lunch with her tennis partner and then meets a foursome for golf at one.

It’s enough to exhaust me just thinking about it. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank has to keep that nice, tight figure of hers, doesn’t she?

I wonder what the plan is once the weather really starts turning, the way the weather can turn in Chicago. Was she planning to bundle up and keep hitting those tennis courts and playing eighteen holes of golf? At some point, you’d think she’d have to call off those outdoor sports, if nothing else when the snow starts arriving.

But it’s a moot point now. Lauren will never see another winter in Chicago or anywhere else. She has, let’s see . . . today is Thursday . . . that’s about 106 hours before trick-or-treating ends on Monday night.

Halloween will be perfect. She’ll be home, it will be dark, and Christian can move around in a costume, for God’s sake, without anyone thinking it odd. Two minutes before seven, already pretty dark out, trick-or-treating petering out, Christian steps into that private little brick canopy around her front door, she opens the door, he shoots her with a silencer, wham bam thank you ma’am. And he walks away as everyone shuts off their lights all at once, making an already dark night pitch-black.

I’m surprised more people don’t get murdered on Halloween.

Thank God that Christian—

Oh, why do I bother thinking of him as Christian? Force of habit, I guess. I’ve been so afraid I might let the name “Nick” slip out that I’ve forced myself to think of him only by his alias—Christian Newsome, Christian Newsome, Christian Newsome!

Thank God that Christian came up with the idea for Halloween night for killing Lauren so I didn’t have to do it for him. Men and their egos.

The idea of framing Simon, too—also his idea. Another thing I didn’t want to have to mention. It’s so, so much better when they think it was their idea. Lucky for me, Christian doesn’t lack for confidence.

I wonder if he talked to his buddy Gavin about all this. Yes, I know about him, too. I never liked homework in high school, but I’ve warmed to it recently.

They probably came up with this stuff together. They probably ran through it for hours, considering every possibility. They probably discussed how Christian should “prepare” me for the idea of murder. And for the idea to pin it on Simon—as if that wasn’t the most important part of this for me.

Speaking of . . . If I were interested in inviting myself into Lauren’s house while she wasn’t home, what would be the best way to do it?

The front of the house—no. The front door is covered by a brick canopy, which makes for nice privacy, but I doubt she leaves the front door unlocked as a practice. To the left of the front door is the three-car garage, so that’s no help. To the right of the front door—my right, north—is a large window and shrubbery and garden. You can probably see into the house, but I doubt that window even opens, and trying to pry it open in front of everyone walking and driving up and down Lathrow Avenue would be about the dumbest thing in the world.

I’m thinking the south side, beyond the garage, along the gangway between the house and the large wooden border fence, where a window has been propped open for the past five days. Probably a kitchen window. It looks tall and wide enough for me to fit through. I may have to punch out a screen.

Oh, and here she comes right now, jogging up Lathrow Avenue, finishing up her three-mile run—the beautiful, sexy Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank, wearing those aqua running tights that probably give every man she passes a hard-on.

She is gorgeous, I will have to give her that. I can’t fault Simon for falling for her.

Oh, sure I can.

So it’s time to keep moving, just a casual, up-tempo walk in my workout clothes, headphones on, not even looking in her direction as she passes me.

Enjoy the rest of your life, Lauren. You have five days left.

I walk back to my car, parked up by the elementary school (one place where you can park by the curb and nobody thinks much of it), and drive back to Grace Park. I park in the alley garage, as always, and walk into the house through the private rear entrance.

There is a coat closet by the back door that Simon never uses. I open it and pull out the Halloween outfit I bought for Christian, an oafish robe with a long hood. I bought it at one of those seasonal Halloween stores that opens just in October, renting vacant commercial space and hanging those gaudy signs.

I paid for it in cash, of course. I put my hair up, wore a baseball cap, wore fake eyeglasses and a puffy coat. I didn’t see any security cameras in there, but if they were there, they couldn’t possibly make me out.

The “Grim Reaper,” they call this costume, complete with a long sickle, but that part I threw away. The robe will cover up Christian’s body features, and the elongated hood will entirely block any view of his face while allowing him to see out.

It will be perfect.

Below that, a new pair of Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots, size thirteen, Christian’s shoe size. I bought those in cash, too, at a discount shoe store, wearing a completely different disguise.

I carry the shoes and the costume through the ground floor of the house to the front closet, near the front-entrance garage where Simon parks. I open the closet and look down. A pair of old loafers Simon hasn’t worn for a while. A backup pair of running shoes.

And yes, another pair of Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots.

Same model, same color as the ones for Christian.

I head upstairs, into the master bedroom, and open Simon’s closet. In the back of the closet hangs a Grim Reaper costume Simon bought for himself last year but never wore.

Also a perfect match for the one I bought Christian, like the boots.

Matching costumes, matching boots.

Simon isn’t the only one who holds a grudge.

62 Christian

“I got it,” Vicky tells me when she gets upstairs into my condo.

She hands me the bag with the Grim Reaper costume.

“You paid cash for it?” I ask. “Avoided cameras?”

“Yes.”

I remove the costume from the bag and pull it over my head with Vicky’s help.

“How do I look?”

“I’ll tell you how you look,” she says. “You look like something out of a Stephen King movie. But more importantly? You look totally anonymous.”

We head into the bathroom so I can look in the mirror.

“It’s formless,” says Vicky. “And your face is too far inside that long hood to see.”

“Yeah, it works.”

“You’re totally anonymous. Anyone who saw you in that, they wouldn’t know if it was you or some scrawny teenager. They wouldn’t know if it was you or some dumpy, middle-aged parent.”

“They wouldn’t know if it was me or your husband, Simon?”

“Exactly,” she says.

“I like it. Perfect. Good job. You have the boots, too?”

“Yes,” she says. “Simon has the same pair.”

“What size are they? Size thirteen, I hope?”

“Size thirteen,” she says. “And yes, I also bought these in cash, and I wore glasses and a hat and dressed differently than when I bought the costume.”

Good, this is good. We head back into the main room.

“We have to cut off all contact with each other,” I tell Vicky. “There can’t be any trace of our connection.”

“Absolutely.”

“What evidence do you have of a connection to me?” I ask. “Did Simon know you met with me?”

“Simon doesn’t know you exist,” she says. “I didn’t tell him I was interviewing financial advisers. I’d never want him to know that.”

“You have some materials, brochures, that kind of thing, from my office?”

“I think I still do.”

“Find them and shred them or burn them.”

“Okay,” she says.

“You ever write my name down? Look me up on your computer?”

She thinks about that. “I looked you up on my computer when I was researching financial advisers.”

“Then dump the computer.”

“I can wipe the computer—”

“No, no, wiping the computer isn’t enough. Cops can recover all that stuff. Break it into pieces and dump it in a river. I’m not kidding, Vicky. This is important.”

“Okay, I will.”

“That’s what I did to my laptop,” I tell her. “I smashed it, broke it in half, dismantled all the parts. I’ve scrubbed all evidence of you from this apartment.”

“Do you have a copy of Simon’s trust?” she asks.

I did, past tense. I shredded it this morning, then I burned the shreds in my fireplace.

“The cops could search this entire place,” I tell her. “They would find no evidence of you, Vicky. No computer. No documents. Nothing.”

“What about evidence of . . . y’know . . . me?”

“You mean DNA?” I say. “No. I got rid of my bedsheets. I washed them just to be sure, then threw them in the dumpster in the alley. They’ll be long gone by the time this happens.”

I sit down next to her.

“Now about your phone,” I say. “You’ve called me and texted me.”

She blushes. “It’s a burner,” she says.

“Your—your phone is a burner?”

“The one I use to call you is, yes. A prepaid phone. Are you surprised? You think I want Simon looking at the phone bill and wondering what number I keep calling?”

Ah, yes, that makes sense. Phew. That makes things easier. I’ve been using a burner with her all along, for a different reason, for when I made my escape with her money, but I’ve never told her that.

“So we’re covered,” I say. “You’ll destroy your computer. You’ll dump your burner. Okay.” I rub my hands together.

“You have a gun yet?” she asks.

Not yet. I’m getting one from Gavin. With a silencer. But she doesn’t know about Gavin. “Soon,” I say.

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Twenty-one million dollars, I tell myself. Twenty-one million dollars.

“What’s up?” Emily says, peeking her head into my office on Thursday afternoon. “You need me?”

“Yeah, come in a second, Em. Sit down.”

She’s probably wondering what I could possibly want. I’ve asked so little of her. She answers a phone that hardly ever rings. She’s been here for a grand total of five meetings I’ve had with potential investors, two of which were Vicky. I told the others, who came after Vicky, that my current fund was closed, but I’d be happy to talk with them when I open my next round of financing.

She hasn’t taken dictation—if that’s even still a thing. She hasn’t written a letter or even made a pot of coffee. Most days, I’ve been paying this nineteen-year-old twenty dollars an hour, four hours a day, to do her homework.

She sits down, wondering if she should have a pad of paper with her, her dirty-blond ponytail bobbing as she searches for a pen.

“This won’t take long,” I say. “Listen, Em, I’ve decided to relocate. I think I’m going to go to Paris for a while. I’m going to fly out there today.”

“Oh, okay.” She takes it pretty well, though I’m sure she likes this job.

“So I’d say you can pack up now and go.” I hand her cash, two thousand dollars. “Think of this as severance.”

“I’m just a temp, Mr. Newsome. You don’t have to pay me severance.”

“Well, then a bonus,” I say. “A contribution to Emily’s college fund.”

She counts it out, her mouth opening in a wow. This is more than a month’s pay all in one shot. “Yeah?” she says.

“Yeah. Good luck to you, Emily. I hope to be reading great things about you someday.”

When Emily’s gone, I remove the sleek desktop computer from the reception desk and smash it into pieces. I take a hammer to the mainframe as well. The busted computers are too heavy for garbage bags, so I put them in duffel bags.

I go through Emily’s drawers, including an appointment pad with carbon pages. Vicky’s name is on them. I rip every page to shreds and throw them in a garbage bag.

The office looks ransacked, stripped naked. But appearances don’t matter anymore. Newsome Capital Growth is looking at its final days in business.

And there is not a single trace of Vicky Lanier to be found.

63 Vicky

Friday morning, a quarter past seven. Conrad Betancourt walks out of the condo building on Michigan Avenue. He is wearing an expensive, long wool coat and carrying nothing, but the bellman behind him is lugging a suitcase and a long piece of luggage that looks like golf clubs.

That confirms it—Conrad’s been staying at the downtown condo, not his house in Grace Village.

Conrad gets into the back of the black town car while the bellman loads the luggage into the trunk.

When the car drives off, but just before the bellman has returned into the building, I hurry forward and call out, “Excuse me! Did I just miss Mr. Betancourt?”

The man, tall and gray with a kind face, smiles. “Afraid so, miss. Just left for O’Hare.”

“Shoot. I’m with the Tribune, I had a couple questions for him. You said the airport?”

“Yes, ma’am. You can leave a message at the lobby desk for him.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I have his cell phone. I just wanted a photo to go with the article.”

“Well, he’ll be gone ’til Tuesday night, miss. Golf trip.”

Conrad is leaving town?

So he’ll be gone for Halloween this coming Monday. Perfect.

64 Simon

Friday morning is dark and chilly, which feels about right. I walk down from the law school to the Chicago Title & Trust Building and arrive well before ten. My walk was faster than normal, though I didn’t realize it. Must be the nerves.

I grab my coffee and power on my phone. At ten o’clock, I text:

Her reply doesn’t come right away. I sip the coffee while people come in and out of the building, checking with security, sliding passes over scanners as iron gates allow them through to the different elevator banks. Finally, my phone pings:

Not the warmest of greetings. My response:

She doesn’t respond. A reasonable person would think she’s either distracted or reticent. I throw her some more:

Her reply box bubbles. It takes more than two minutes before she responds:

Not exactly a font of conversation today, are we? I try to engage her more than that:

She doesn’t respond. The coffee is cooling enough that I can drink it in greater gulps, and I do, because there’s not much else to do. This is a one-sided conversation. I try this:

This time, her reply comes quickly:

Yes, what? You’re distracted, or something’s wrong? But a halfway normal person would let this go for now and not push. So that’s what I do:

This time, her reply comes quickly:

I stare at the phone for a while. Nothing else comes. I power it down, remove the SIM card, and shove the phone in my pocket. I leave the building just in time for the rainfall to begin.

65 Vicky

Friday, noon sharp. I arrive in the alley by Christian’s garage door. I type in the pass code to his garage. The door grinds open. I close my umbrella and step inside. Christian is by the interior door waiting for me. He hits a button to close the door behind me.

Christian looks the same superficially as always, the male-model, pretty-boy thing, but he is all nerves, wearing a frown on his face and some dark circles under his eyes.

I follow him up the stairs. It smells different in here. Usually, there isn’t much of a scent one way or the other, maybe a hint of his cologne, maybe a trace of body odor if he’s been working out recently. Now the air is pungent with disinfectant.

“You’ve been cleaning.”

“I’ve wiped down every surface,” he says. “I don’t want your fingerprints anywhere. Vacuumed, too. Have to remove all trace of you.”

That’s a good boy, Christian.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I use your bathroom.”

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll wipe it down after you’re gone.”

Good that he’s taken this seriously. There can’t be any trace of me inside this apartment.

I step into the bathroom, a shrine to his vanity, with the matching set of titanium toothbrush, razor, nail clippers, nose-hair trimmer, and fucking dental-floss holder. I’m surprised the dirty-towel hamper in the corner isn’t plated in titanium, too.

When I come back out, he’s waiting right there for me, a nervous Nellie.

“Did you destroy your computer?” he asks.

“I broke it into several pieces and dumped each piece in a different spot.”

“Good. And you got rid of your burner phone?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I thought we might still need to talk. It’s only Friday.”

“No, I think we’re done talking,” he says. “Probably best we don’t see each other between now and Monday. Or after, for that matter. Not for a while.”

I frown, like I’m greatly disturbed at the thought of our separation, like I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if I have to spend one moment without the man of my dreams. “How long a while?” I ask.

“Vicky, we—we have to be prepared for an investigation.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. Now he’s going to lecture me on what will happen post-murder, and I will have to look like I’m paying attention, like I’m not ten steps ahead of him.

“This is a rich lady in a rich town,” he says. “This will be a big deal. Unless Simon was incredibly smart about this—and we can’t count on it—they’re going to figure out she was having an affair with him. You have to be prepared for a search of your house.”

I am.

“You have to be prepared to be interviewed by the police.”

I’m not. Oh, God, that would be a disaster.

“You have to be prepared to look Simon in the eye and act surprised when he tells you that someone named Lauren Betancourt was just murdered in Grace Village.”

Jesus, he’s a bundle of nerves.

“If Simon has the slightest idea that you were behind this,” he says, “maybe he goes ahead and files for divorce. And then all of this will be for noth—”

“I can handle Simon,” I say. “I’ve been handling Simon for ten years.”

“Yeah, well, this will be the performance of a lifetime, babe.”

“You have the gun yet?”

“Not to mention— What?”

“Do you have the gun yet?” I repeat. “You said you were getting—”

“Yes, I have it.”

“What kind is it?”

“I— Do you know about guns?” He seems surprised.

“I grew up in West Virginia, remember?”

I didn’t grow up in West Virginia. Vicky Lanier, my alter ego, did. But my father was an avid hunter and took me with him sometimes. He’d take me to the shooting range, too, and let me fire his guns, at least his handguns.

“What kind of gun do you have?” I ask again.

“It’s a Glock.”

“A Glock what? A 23?”

He steps back. “You do know your guns. It’s a Glock 17, apparently.”

“Okay, fine. And you have a suppressor?”

“A what?”

“A silencer, Christian. You need a silencer.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Is it already attached?”

“Yeah, he— It came attached.”

He, meaning Gavin, I assume. Gavin Finley has a firearm owners identification card with the state, and he owns three handguns, at least three he has legally purchased.

Yeah, it’s nice having an investigator like Rambo on my team.

Not that I would expect Gavin to give Christian one of his own guns. No, Gavin must have bought it from a fence or used a straw purchaser. That’s what I’d do.

“Let me see it,” I say. “I want to check it out.”

“It’s not here. But don’t worry. The guy who got it, he knows guns.”

“Does he know you?” I ask. “Does he know me?”

“No, no, no, nothing like that.”

Yes, yes, yes—exactly like that. It must have been Gavin, and I’m sure Gavin knows who I am. He’s Christian’s—Nick’s—best friend from childhood. He’s a fellow scammer, only his are less profitable.

“Practice shooting,” I say.

“You want me to practice?”

“You’ve never fired a weapon before. Even shooting from close range, you need to get used to it. You need to make sure the magazine is properly loaded and the slide is back, you need to get used to the weight of it in your hands and holding it with a suppressor—”

“You’re, like, G.I. Jane over here.”

I pat him on the chest. “Promise me you’ll practice. Don’t let Halloween night be the first time you’ve fired a gun.”

“So no luck with Simon’s green phone?” Christian asks me.

“I couldn’t find it. And you remember what his diary said about the weekends. They keep their phones off. They don’t communicate after Friday morning until Monday morning.”

“Right, I remember. They go dark on the weekends. That’s smart.”

“Yeah, hooray for them, it’s smart,” I say. “But for me, it means that as of now, until Monday morning, wherever Simon stowed it away, it’s going to stay stowed away. My guess is he left it at his office at the law school.”

“I wonder where Lauren keeps her pink phone.”

“Probably stowed away for the weekend, too,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I guess at this point, it doesn’t matter. We have the information we need. We have the plan. We don’t need their phones.”

Maybe you don’t, Christian. But I do.

“You’re right,” I say.

Christian walks me down to the garage. I turn to him before he pops the door open.

“Now get rid of your burner phone,” he says to me. “It’s a connection to me.”

“I’ll keep it ’til Monday.”

“Vicky—”

“Just in case,” I say. “If there’s an emergency. If I need to reach you. Or you, me.”

“Okay, I guess that makes sense,” he agrees.

“If there’s an emergency, just text something innocuous. I’ll have my phone off, but I’ll check it periodically. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Otherwise, see you Monday?”

He sighs, thinks about that. “You think we should see each other on the big day?”

“Just in case,” I say. “Just a check-in. Just to make sure nothing’s come up. Just to run through everything again, one more time.”

He relents. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

“I’ll be here at noon,” I say. “Right here by the garage at noon.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me you’ll practice with the Glock this weekend,” I say.

“I will.”

We go silent. This is supposed to be a tender moment, I guess. He thinks I’m worried—about him, about our future together. This is supposed to be a tearful goodbye-for-a-while.

Okay, here goes.

“Promise me we’ll be together when this is over,” I say without gagging or vomiting.

He takes my hands, kisses me softly. “Of course we will,” he whispers. “That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

I nod, look into his eyes. “I don’t know what I’ll do if . . .”

. . . if I have to pretend to be in love with this self-worshipping jagoff for another second. But I let the words drift off.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures me. “Everything’s going to turn out fine.”

66 Christian

Saturday morning. I flip up the collar on my jacket. Out here in the heavily shaded woods, it feels like nighttime, not one hour past dawn. It can’t be more than forty degrees.

Gavin comes walking down the trail a few minutes later, wearing a green hunting jacket and a cap on his head. “You sleep much?” he asks me.

“Hardly at all.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Hell yes, I’m nervous. This would be much easier if you did this, not me. You’re the hunter. You’re the one who knows guns.”

“I’m not doing it, Nick. We’ve been over this. It’s your job. You’re doing it.”

I stretch my arms, roll my neck. I’ve never fired a gun in my life, and two days from now, I’m going to kill somebody at close range.

“You trust Vicky?” Gavin asks me.

Do I trust a woman who is willing to kill over money? Do I trust a woman who plans on stealing it all from her husband?

“What I trust,” I say, “is that she wants the money, she wants me to invest it, and she wants me, period. That much, I trust. And that’s all I need to trust.”

“Yeah.” Gavin works his jaw, which could use a razor. “Yeah. So . . . what happens afterward? After you kill Lauren?”

“Simon’s going to be pretty devastated,” I say. “There’ll be no reason for him to go through with the divorce so urgently. He’ll probably— He’ll be blown apart, I assume. And Vicky will be the doting wife who plays dumb.”

“What if Simon suspects Vicky was behind this? It’s not exactly a giant leap. He’s having an affair, planning on dumping his wife and cutting her out of the money, and suddenly the ‘other woman’ ends up shot dead?”

“Vicky says she can handle him. I trust that much, too.”

“Vicky can handle him.” Gavin thinks that over. “Vicky hasn’t been handling him so far, has she? Simon’s been stepping out on her and she didn’t have a clue.”

“That’s probably my fault,” I say. “I’ve done too good a job with her. She’s fallen for me. She’s so worried about him finding out about me that she didn’t notice what he was doing behind her back.”

Gavin starts walking down the trail to our site, the place I’m going to practice shooting.

“You don’t seem convinced,” I say to him.

“Okay, Nicky, let’s say Vicky handles Simon, like you say she will. She plays dumb and plays the doting wife. November third comes and goes, and now she has control of the money.”

“Right. That’s the key. She handles him for a couple of days after the murder, and then we’re home free on November third.”

“What about the cops?” Gavin turns to me.

“Well, if they’re halfway decent at their job, they’ll figure out Simon was having an affair with Lauren. And they’ll want to question him.”

“And Vicky.”

“Yeah, probably. Vicky can handle it. All she has to do is play dumb, right? There’s no connection between her and me.”

“Sounds like you’re counting on Vicky a lot.”

“Not as much as you think,” I say. “For one thing, we’re setting Simon up. I’m wearing the same exact boots he owns and the same Grim Reaper costume in his closet. If anyone sees me or the cops find my boot prints, it will lead to Simon. They’re not gonna think Vicky dressed up in that outfit. And anyway, we just have to get past a couple of days, right? The day after Halloween, November first—Simon hears the news. That’ll hit him like a freight train. Vicky plays dumb. Maybe Simon confesses his affair to her. Maybe he doesn’t. But then we just need another twenty-four-hour period to pass—November second—and then we’re at November third and their ten-year anniversary and we’re golden.”

“You mean Vicky’s golden.” Gavin stops along the trail. This must be the spot he had in mind for target practice.

“No, we’re golden.”

Gavin shows me one of his patented smirks. “How do you know that, once November third rolls around, Vicky won’t forget you ever existed?”

“She won’t,” I say. “Believe me, she won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Fuck, G, where’s the trust? I know what I’m doing.”

Gavin pulls out an empty soda can and places it on a tree stump.

“You, I trust,” he says. “Vicky, I don’t. What if she just wants you to be the triggerman who kills Simon’s girlfriend? And once you’ve performed that task for her, thank you very much, she forgets that ‘Christian Newsome’ ever existed. What if the whole point of your existence is to be the guy who solves the ‘Lauren problem’ for her?”

I’m shaking my head midway through his speech. “That makes no sense. First of all, Vicky didn’t have a ‘Lauren problem’ until a couple days ago. And second, for the last two months, Vicky has been thinking about two things and two things only—grabbing that money and grabbing my cock. I fuck her like she’s never been fucked in her life, and in her mind, I’m the guy who can quadruple her money, too. This is what I do. I draw in my targets. I’ve never missed. I’m not missing now.”

I pull the Glock with the silencer out of my gym bag. Gavin marks a spot, about ten feet away.

“Besides,” I say, “I’m too close to that money now. I’m not letting some blondie shake her ass for Simon and fuck me out of it. Whatever the risk, it’s worth it. It’s twenty-one million dollars, G. Nothing is risk-free. If something happens down the road and we hit a bump, we’ll figure it out.”

I aim the gun at the empty soda can resting on top of the tree stump, and fire. A popping sound, nothing remotely approaching the sound you’d expect from firing a bullet. The silencer works just fine. The problem is the person firing the gun.

The soda can and tree stump, ten paces away, sit undisturbed.

“It’s harder to aim with a suppressor,” says Gavin. “You can’t see the sights as clearly.”

“I can’t hit anything. I’m zero for five.”

“Yeah, but I’m making you shoot a soda can from ten feet away,” he says. “You’ll be shooting at a person’s body from two feet away. It’s hard to miss. Just aim for center mass and shoot. You won’t miss. I’d fire several times, if it were me. The mag holds seventeen rounds. Bang-bang-bang. Just keep firing.”

I drop the gun to my side. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Hey, look at that,” Gavin says. I follow his eyes to a nearby tree, a spare tire hanging from a tree branch, a makeshift swing.

“That would be a good backup,” he says. “You always need a backup plan, right?”

“I’ll drop an inner tube on her head?”

“No, dipshit, the rope.” Gavin walks over to the tree, looks up at it. “You can tie the rope around your waist. That would look right for a Grim Reaper costume, anyway.”

“A rope for a backup? How about a knife or something?”

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “A knife is no good. You don’t want to use a knife. Too much of a chance that you cut yourself and leave DNA behind, or maybe you get her blood on you. A rope is bloodless. Yeah,” he says, “this rope is a good backup.”

“So—if I can’t shoot straight with the gun, I strangle her with a rope?”

“Well, yeah, if it comes to that.” He feels the rope, knotted every foot or so, hanging about eight, ten feet down from a thick tree branch. “Yeah, I like this rope. Good traction on it with the knots. And it already has a noose.”

“A noose? Jesus Christ, G, there’s no way I can do that.”

“Once you start, you have to finish, Nicky. If anything goes wrong—”

“What’s gonna go wrong?”

“Well, shit, I don’t know,” he says. “All I know is it makes sense to have a backup plan. Help me take that rope down.”

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this. But there’s no turning back now.

Twenty-one million dollars. It’s Lauren or me.

67 Vicky

Sunday morning. October 30. The day before Halloween.

Just another day, another workout, as I power walk in my workout gear, AirPods in my ears, and I just happen to stop to check my phone, to have a pretend phone conversation, outside the home of one Lauren Betancourt on Lathrow Avenue in Grace Village, Illinois.

I won’t spend long here. It’s way too close to D-Day. I walk in a small circle, saying, “I know, right?” and “You think you were surprised. You should have seen my face!” I’m animated, even laughing a little.

But all I need is a quick glance on the south side of Lauren’s house, by the gangway and the large privacy fence.

It’s still open. The window, presumably to the kitchen. It’s been open, by my count, for more than eight consecutive days. Which means she just keeps it open all the time. Doesn’t even think about it.

It’s not at eye level. Looks like a stepladder or some lawn chair or bench or something will be necessary to reach it. That’s more difficult. That’s risky.

But it is, without a doubt, a way into her house.

68 Simon

I lace up my running shoes at 7:30 p.m. My longer run for the weekend, saving it for tonight, Sunday night, a fourteen-miler.

Much as I love running through the west side of Chicago, I can’t deny the violence that plagues these neighborhoods, that it’s not the safest idea to be jogging along the street in the dark on a weekend night. The Halloween decorations don’t help my nerves, the ghouls and witches and scream faces.

But I will never stop running through these streets. They inspire me, the people fighting through poverty and crummy schools, getting the short end of every stick, but fighting no less. I have lived a blessed life. I know that. I’ve had a few low points, to be sure, but I’ve never wondered whether there would be food on the table, I’ve never wondered whether I’d go to college, I’ve never had to avoid windows in my own home for fear of stray gunfire, I’ve never been told that there was no hope for me. I’ve never been ignored.

“You’ll find someone you love,” my mother said to me in her last week, forcing the words out. She was right. I haven’t had a hard time finding someone I love. I’ve found two people. The problem is them loving me back. That’s the hole I’ve felt, even before I realized it was a hole.

I end up running faster than even I expected—nervous energy, I suppose. I cover seven miles, give or take, in less than forty minutes.

I stop outside the alley behind Viva Mediterránea, cool air on my sweaty face, my stocking cap pulled low. Not that Christian would recognize me, even if he stood out on his patio on this chilly night and looked down at me. Has he seen a picture of me? Maybe. Probably. He’s never met me in person.

At eight, I power up the green phone and pop in the SIM card. A message is already awaiting me:

I start typing so fast, I almost drop the phone:

Her reply box bubbles. It doesn’t take her long:

I respond immediately:

Her reply is just as quick:

I respond immediately, violating the number one rule against using names:

She doesn’t respond. No bubbles.

Again, no response. No bubbles.

I hit “send.”

I hit “send.”

And then, after a few moments, a response:

I move out of texting and go to the phone. I call her number. The robotic voice tells me that the cellular customer I am trying to call is not available.

I don’t leave a voicemail. I call her again. Same robotic voice.

I call her again. Same robotic voice.

I call her again. Same robotic voice.

I return to text messages. My pulse pounding, my hands trembling, I send one last text:

69 Vicky

People may pay more attention at night, but it’s still easier being a woman out on the streets of Grace Village. And what’s the big deal if you’re only stopping for a quick moment or two on the sidewalk in the middle of a somewhat busy street like Lathrow Avenue on a Sunday evening?

I can see why someone like Lauren would like living around here. Pretty trees hanging over the streets, big houses on wide lots. Peaceful and quiet. And I could also see why someone like Simon, in the next town over, resented a town like this.

Speak of the devil. The pink phone pings again, another text from the old boy:

Hey, life’s a bitch. Another text from him:

Yeah, well, keep begging. I hold the pink phone in my hand and give him some more time. Keep begging, fella.

Apparently so.

That’s four consecutive texts from him. Time for Lauren’s final knockout punch:

I hit “send,” the phone belting out a thwip as the message carries forth to Simon’s phone. Yep, pretty harsh. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank is capable of saying something like this, isn’t she? Sure she is.

The phone rings. I let it ring.

It rings again. I don’t answer.

Again. Let it ring, let it ring, let it ring . . .

Again. No one’s going to answer, Simon. The question is, are you going to send another text? Are you going to let Lauren get the last word? C’mon, sport, you have it in you.

The pink phone pings, another text from the man of the hour:

I press down the “power” button and watch the pink phone’s screen fade to black. I walk south, glancing at the gangway on the south side of her house. The window into the kitchen still open. Lauren really should be more careful.

I keep walking, happy to end on that last text from Simon. He’s right. This isn’t over.

But it will be in twenty-four hours.

70 Simon

Three in the morning. Technically Halloween. Vicky’s down for the count, sleeping peacefully in the bedroom. Me, I can’t sleep, I’m too amped up. I need to run, but it’s too early, even for me.

I stare at the green phone. No, not here, not now.

I don’t want to wake Vicky, so I go downstairs and pace through a dark house. I shiver from the cold, or probably nerves, I don’t know, but I’m so cold, like some invisible wind is whipping through me.

I pace, rubbing my arms, and think. Or at least I try to think. I can’t keep settled.

Deep breath. Calm, Simon. Deep breath.

The phrase “It is what it is” is the only sentence we speak where we could, but don’t ever, ever use contractions. Nobody says, “It’s what it’s.”

Deep breath.

The phrase “only choice” is an oxymoron.

“Laid” is pronounced like “paid” but not “said” and “said” is pronounced like “bread” but not “bead” and “bead” is pronounced like “lead” but not “lead.”

Deep breath.

No. No. The old tricks not working, not working at all. I can’t make my mind do anything but remember. Remember your words, Lauren, nineteen years ago, and the look of pity on your face when you said them.

“I assume you weren’t planning on us getting married,” you said to me.

And then you laughed, a small chuckle, like even the slightest possibility of a relationship with me was humorous, obviously so. It was a joke to you. I was a joke to you.

You didn’t care. It didn’t even bother you.

Then, after swinging your wrecking ball, you left. At least you had the decency to leave.

And I was willing to let it go. It took a long time, it was hard, it was brutal, actually, but I said okay, let it go, put it behind you, and I did, Lauren. I put you behind me. I never forgot about you, not for one day, but I put you behind me.

But then you came back. And you didn’t even tell me. You just came back here like it didn’t matter, like nothing you did back then made one bit of difference and you could just stroll back here and, y’know, fuck it if I lived in the next town over. And that club, that country club, no I never go, I’m just a legacy member, but you knew my family belonged there and you had to think you might run into me there, but that didn’t stop you from going, did it, Lauren, going every day, because you didn’t care, did you, Lauren? Because it’s all about you. It was never about anyone else but you.

I wish I hadn’t seen you that day in May. Five seconds, Jesus, five seconds different that day and I probably would’ve missed you, I would’ve never known you were back.

I twist the gas starter on the fireplace in the living room, sit close to it as the fire pops on, burns the firewood with a cackle. I put out my hands. But I can’t stop shaking.

I pick up the marriage certificate. Acta de Matrimonio, the act of marriage. Nombre Simon Peter Dobias. Nombre Victoria Lanier. Fecha de Registro 2012-11-3.

Vicky made me better. I would have loved her forever if she could’ve loved me back.

I pull open the metal curtain and toss the marriage certificate into the fire. Watch it blacken and bend and disappear into ash.

The green journal. I hate that journal. I’m so tired of that journal. I leaf through it, the heat blazing on my face now. I read through it, all those days over the spring and summer and fall.

“Would you like to see me again?”

I rip out the page and toss it in the fire.

“Do you want me to be your whore, Professor Dobias?”

Rip it out and toss it in. Watch it burn.

Are you my addiction, Lauren? Am I barreling toward a cliff?

Burn.

I have become the man I despise.

Burn!

“I want us to get married.”

Burn, burn, fucking BURN—

Burn it all. Burn everything. Burn the cover. Burn every last scrap of its existence and scoop up the ashes and walk outside into the backyard, the shrubbery and trees blanketing me in privacy, in pitch-dark, and throw them into the wind like you discard the ashes of the dead.

Then go down to the basement, into the small room with the safe that came with the house, that was here when my father and mother bought this house thirty years ago.

I turn the combination to the right, 9, to the left, 19, to the right, 81, and pull open the safe. I almost need two hands to do it, heavy and creaky as the door is. The safe is built into the floor, one of these massive old things that looks more like a furnace than a storage unit for valuables. Drop a bomb on this house and the safe would still be intact. I’ve used it for tax documents and some vital records, but not anymore. Now it holds only two things.

One, stacks of money. A million dollars in cash. Money I withdrew this summer from the trust fund, filling up most of the safe.

And two, Vicky’s gun.

A Glock 23, she said, whatever that means. I don’t know very much about guns. But I know enough. I know they fire bullets. I know they kill people.

I put the gun against my temple and close my eyes.

Oh, the irony, right? The guy who runs Survivors of Suicide puts a bullet through his head?

It’s not too late. It’s not too late to turn back. It would save everyone a lot of trouble, a lot of pain. It might be best for everyone.

No.

I place the gun on top of the safe.

I’m not letting you off that easy, Lauren.

This isn’t over. That’s what I wrote in my last text message. And I meant it. This is not over.

71 Vicky

I’m at the alley garage below Christian’s condo at noon sharp, Monday. The sun is high, the air is cool. The temps today will reach the high forties, slight chance of rain in the early afternoon but not for long if at all. That’s good. Perfect weather for trick-or-treating. A perfect night for murder. Somebody must have said that in a movie.

But what’s not so good? The garage door isn’t opening. Christian’s been good at being timely, not wanting me standing outside in the alley, exposing myself to public view.

You picked a really shitty day to be late, Christian.

I know the pass code to get into his garage, but I don’t want to use it. I don’t want to startle him. He’s already seemed nervous. I’d prefer he come out and get me.

I look up at his condo, but I’m looking into the sun and can’t see any indication of what’s going on up there.

At five after twelve, a mild case of panic starts to set in. I need to see him. What’s he doing? Did he forget? But how could he forget?

He’s freaking out, that’s what’s happening, he’s freaking—

The door rises, startling me. I hike my bag over my shoulder and walk inside.

At the doorway into his condo stands Christian, wearing a dirty white T-shirt, hair fallen into his dark-ringed eyes.

“Happy Halloween,” I say, but he doesn’t smile. “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”

I follow him up the stairs. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He stops in the kitchen and looks at me. “I’m fine. Just nerves, I guess. I’ve never done something like this.”

Don’t go wussing out on me now, Christian. I need you, pal.

His eyes are glassy, almost like he’s been crying. He’s pale and sweaty and shaky.

Are you fucking kidding me? He’s going south on me now? We’re just hours away.

“Let me get you some water,” I say.

“Gloves,” he says, pointing at the kitchen counter.

A pair of rubber gloves, pulled out of their wrapping and waiting for me. Smart.

“I just spent . . . all weekend scrubbing you out of this condo,” he says.

I snap on the rubber gloves, grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and hand it to him. “Drink,” I say. “Do you have the flu or something?”

“I just . . . threw up,” he admits. “Nervous stomach, I guess. I don’t have the flu.”

“Let me take your temperature. You have a thermometer?”

“Uh . . . I think so. An old one.”

I head into his bathroom. It reeks of vomit. The toilet lid is still up. What a freakin’ cream puff. But what did I expect, I guess, from a guy with a titanium toothbrush and matching nose-hair trimmer?

“I’ll clean up in here a little,” I call to him. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”

Get some rest and grow a pair of testicles.

When I come out of the bathroom, Christian’s lying on the couch, trying to relax but not succeeding. I drop my bag down and sit next to him, putting his feet on my lap.

“We’re only getting one chance at this,” I say.

“I know that. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”

“Did you practice with the Glock?”

He nods. “I practiced. It’s fine. It’s easy to handle.”

“Okay. What time are you going?”

He blows out. “Probably six-thirty or so, I’ll be there. I’ll try to blend in with the crowd. I’ll make it down to her house about five minutes ’til seven.”

“Good. A couple minutes before seven, ring the doorbell. If it’s after seven, she might not answer—”

“I know. I got it.”

“And right at seven, people might be sticking their heads out to shout ‘Happy Halloween’—”

“I know, Vicky. A couple minutes before seven. And what happens if other kids are there at that time? Other trick-or-treaters?”

“Not very likely,” I say. “But if so, wait for them to leave.”

“And you’re sure Conrad is out of town?”

“I’m sure. It will be Lauren answering the door. She’s there alone. Okay?” I shake his leg. “We okay? It’s a good plan, Christian.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself as well as me. “I’m fine.”

Jeez. Does he want his hands on that twenty-one million or not?

72 Simon

This isn’t over.

After Vicky leaves Monday morning, I try to find an outlet for my nervous energy. I clean the downstairs, spraying and wiping and vacuuming and dusting. When I’m done, I stretch my back, sore but calmed by the physical labor. The sunlight streaming into the family room helps, too. The middle of the night, dark and desolate, is never a good place for me. Daytime is much better.

And it’s nice to have that green journal behind me, every last page burned to ash and scattered into the wind in my backyard. It’s just about the last remaining connection to Lauren.

Other than the green phone, turned off, in my pocket.

I go to work. I’m not sure why. I don’t have class today and I don’t have office hours today, but I go anyway, maybe because I think I’m supposed to, because it will look right, it will look normal, but I can’t think about the law. I can only think about her. I try to read from the e-bulletin I receive every Monday about new Fourth Amendment decisions handed down around the country, but all I can think about is her. I try to focus on my new law review article on the good-faith exception to the warrant requirement, but all I can think about is her. I put on my headphones and jam the loudest music I can find, Metallica and Rage Against the Machine—

—turning it up louder and louder and louder, but all I can think about is Lauren Lauren Lauren Lauren LAUREN.

I open my eyes. I’m home. I got home. Right, I drove home.

I’m in the basement, in the dark. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to do this.

You don’t have to do this.

Simon Peter Dobias: You can let this go. You can let her go.

I go to the pantry and open it up. Six hundred forty pieces of candy, four bags of a hundred sixty each. Happy Halloween.

What time is it? After three. Trick-or-treating starts at four in Grace Park, an hour later than the Village.

Waiting. The waiting is ripping a hole through my stomach. Nothing I can do but grit it out. Deep breaths now, Simon. Deep breaths.

Why always “trick or treat” and never, ever “treat or trick”? It means the same thing. So does “jelly and peanut butter” or “cream ’n’ cookies” or “white and black.”

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.

Why do feet smell and noses run?

You’re okay, Simon, you’re okay.

Getting close to four. You’ll need to answer the door. You’ll need to smile and hand out candy. You’ll need to be seen handing out candy, you want people to say, Yes, yes, Simon Dobias was home. Yes, he was home handing out candy, why? Why do you ask, Officer? You think Simon Dobias went over to Lauren Betancourt’s house and shot her in the head because she trampled over everything that mattered to him and laughed about it? Just walked away like he didn’t matter and laughed about it? Well no, Officer, no.

He was home handing out candy.

Upstairs, my legs shaking but I’ve made it upstairs.

It’s not four yet and I’m not sure yet if I can answer the door and go through with it, not sure I can smile and hand out candy and say, “Happy Halloween!” But I know I can. I can do this. I can do this. Of course I can do this, but I need to charge my phone, not the green phone but my normal phone, my iPhone, gotta charge it up by my nightstand. The drawer is ajar and I never leave the door ajar. I open it up and look inside the drawer—

Vicky’s wedding ring. The one she was wearing this morning.

The ring I once nervously slid on her finger.

She said no the first time I asked her.

“Happy Halloween! Go ahead and take a couple!”

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome!” and wave to the parents with their umbrellas because it’s sprinkling, Hey, remember me, remember me I’m Simon Dobias if anyone asks whether I (a) was home handing out candy or (b) was over at Lauren’s house putting a bullet in her head because this time I couldn’t let it go. It isn’t over.

“Happy Halloween! Go ahead and take a bunch, here, take like five each!”

Five-thirty.

“Happy Halloween! Go ahead and take as many as you want!”

Six-fifteen.

I go upstairs and open my bedroom closet and look to the far right. Pull out the costume I bought last year but didn’t wear to a party I was supposed to attend. A Grim Reaper costume. All black, long robe, elongated hood. It’s never been worn. I decided not to go to the party. It was some student’s Halloween bash, and you have to be careful socializing with students, so I decided against it at the last minute.

I pick up my iPhone, still charging on the nightstand.

I pull up Netflix. I turn on House of Cards. I scroll through the synopses of season one and remind myself of the characters’ names—Frank, Claire, Zoe, Peter, Stamper—and the general plot. Then I turn on season one, episode one.

I get dressed. Blue suit and red tie. Put the Barack Obama mask over my head. I’m roughly the same build as the former president, so other than the obvious difference in skin pigment, it’s a pretty good look. I’m Barack Obama, the forty-fourth president of the United States.

I pull out a pillowcase and fill it with everything I need. The Grim Reaper costume makes it heavier and bulkier than I’d prefer. Nothing I can do about that.

I head out the back door, through the privacy of my backyard, into the alley.

I walk along Division, not wanting to arrive too soon. It’s cold and damp outside. I’m underdressed and I get a few comments in that regard from people I pass—“Love the costume! Aren’t you cold?”—but the cold is helping me now, not hindering.

Because now I’m doing it. The time for worrying, obsessing, debating, second-guessing, is over. It’s liberating, I must say, to be done with the conflict. Now I can focus.

By 6:45 p.m., I’m at Lathrow and Division in Grace Village. The number of trick-or-treaters has frittered down to just a handful, mostly older kids.

Lauren’s house is a block and a half to the south.

You shouldn’t have come back, Lauren.