Look Closer

80 Simon

I walk two blocks north from the block where Lauren lives, roughly tracking the route that Christian took a few minutes ago, though he was walking fairly fast, while I choose to emulate the cool-customer former president whose costume I’m wearing. It’s getting a little nippy out here, me with only a suit and no overcoat, though the full Obama mask does keep my head warm.

I reach the elementary school, listening for any sounds behind me, glancing back for any obnoxious flashing lights, listening for any sirens. Nothing so far. No police vehicles speeding toward Lauren’s house. They’ll either come pretty quickly or they won’t come at all.

I walk behind the school and stand by the dumpster, which hides me from the street. I let time pass. I need time to pass. I hope it goes fast. The less time I have to think, the less time to make myself crazy.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Simon.

If I “wind up” a watch or a clock or a toy or an old music box, I’m starting them, but if I “wind up” a comedy routine or a monologue or an essay, I’m ending them.

Nowadays, the word “nonplussed” means both “confused” and “not confused.”

I jump in place to stay warm and loose, anxious for this to end, trying to appear nonplussed while I wait to wind up this whole thing.

Deep breaths.

Ten minutes to eight. I remove the Grim Reaper costume from my trick-or-treat bag. It takes some work to wrestle it over my head while still wearing the Obama mask. But yes, I’m going to use a double layer of anonymity here. I doubt anyone could see my face with this elongated Grim Reaper hood, but if somehow they could, the face they’d see would be that of our first African American president.

I’ve become pretty damn cold out here, basically standing still in forty-degree weather for half an hour, so the costume provides much-needed warmth.

This is where it gets risky, but there is no reward without risk, and I’ve come this far.

I always told myself—if I get caught, I get caught. The number one goal is Lauren, and it seems that Christian accomplished that for me. The number two goal, not one but two, is my getting away with it. I have to accept the possibility that I won’t.

I head back to Lauren’s house. I walk down Lathrow to Thomas and stop by a large tree on the corner lot. It has now been an hour since Christian left the house. No police have responded, so nobody saw or heard anything that caused them to report anything.

The house by which I’m standing has the lights on downstairs but is dark upstairs. I suppose someone could peek out and see me, but as of now, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? That’s not to say I’d like to be seen, or that an encounter with the police would be enjoyable. Far from it.

This is the moment. This is when I really expose myself.

Here goes nothing.

I cross the street and walk up Lauren’s yard to the bushes by her front window, not slowing my stride, acting as natural as someone wearing a Grim Reaper costume walking across someone’s yard in the dark can act. Acting like I’m supposed to be there, not sneaking around.

I stand at the window, peering inside the home, letting my Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots plant firmly into the soft dirt. Softened enough, it seems, from the brief rainfall earlier today, to qualify as mud. I wave, as if trying to get the attention of the person inside Lauren’s house, just in case some neighbor sees me—they see a friend, not a Peeping Tom. A weird friend, maybe, but not an unwelcome one.

My pulse banging, breathing shallow, feeling like the brightest of spotlights is shining on me. I make a gesture into the window toward the front door, as if I want Lauren to let me in. Again, for show. Again, strange, but it looks like I’m making contact with Lauren inside her house—I’m a friendly weirdo, not a criminal creeper.

Then I make a thumbs-up sign, as if Lauren has agreed to meet me at the front door.

What would a nosy neighbor think? A neighbor probably wouldn’t be so sure as to call the police. Not when I’m waving at Lauren inside her house, communicating with her through gestures. Right?

I step out of the bushes and walk confidently to the brick-canopied front porch. This is the greatest gift, this canopy. No neighbor has a direct line on the front door, with the brick cover. Nobody can see me in here.

I push my foot against the front door, planting it hard but making as little noise as possible, or so I hope. At this point, with my pulse blaring between my ears, I couldn’t hear a pair of clashing cymbals.

I repeat the exercise again, softly but firmly planting a foot against the door. The boot prints, darkened from the moist dirt, are unmistakable. Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots, size thirteen.

Now it’s time to go inside.

Is the front door unlocked? Did Christian leave it unlocked? Is it normally unlocked? I don’t know. If necessary, I will go through the side window by the kitchen that Lauren always leaves open. But I’d rather walk through the front door, for obvious reasons.

Sweat stinging my eyes, my body on fire, I put my gloved hands on the front door and turn the knob.

The door opens.

I look inside, my eyes down, expecting to see her lying in the foyer.

Then I spot her. She’s not lying anywhere. She’s hanging—hanging???—from the second-floor bannister. Hanging from a long, knotted rope—the one that was around Christian’s waist. No wonder it took him so long inside. Why not just shoot her?

I step inside and close the door behind me. I’ve waited so long for this moment.

I look up into her dead eyes. She isn’t looking in my direction. That’s okay. Life isn’t perfect.

“Been a long time, Lauren,” I whisper. “Remember me?”

I wait. Inside Lauren’s house, Lauren’s body hanging basically right in front of me, a glass bowl shattered near my feet. I check through the peephole out onto Lathrow. If a neighbor called the police, it wouldn’t take the cops long to respond. They’d be here within minutes.

First sign of a cop car, I’ll run out Lauren’s back door, through backyards, desperately fleeing. Needless to say, not a preferred outcome.

I pull out my green cell phone and power it on. I type a message to the pink phone:

Then I pull the hot pink phone out of my pocket and power it on, too. Two phones, one pink and one green.

The pink phone shows receipt of that trick-or-treat message. Good.

I wait. Glance through the peephole again. If a neighbor called, it would have been a distress kind of call. A strange man lurking outside and now he’s inside the house! The police would not respond idly—they’d come fast. They’d probably be here now or any second. Or maybe—maybe not. Maybe the neighbor was ambivalent, wasn’t sure, didn’t want to make a fuss where none was required, didn’t want to alienate the Betancourts if this was harmless, but still felt some instinct to call the cops while downplaying it—and they’d take their time coming, a nonurgent inquiry. Which means they could still show up maybe in a few minutes, I’m not in the clear yet—

Breathe, Simon. Don’t make yourself crazy. Focus on the task.

I type another message on the green phone:

The pink phone buzzes in response. Two more agonizing minutes pass, because I need a little time between these texts. Then I type once more:

Then I focus on the other burner, the pink phone, and type a response that feels appropriate under the circumstances:

Followed by a quick reply with the green phone:

Which requires a prompt, shocked response from the pink phone:

And the reasonable, reassuring reply from the green phone:

A flurry of back-and-forths to follow. It’s not so easy wearing gloves, though these are running gloves, designed specifically so joggers could wear them while playing with their phones, switching up music or whatever. My shaking hands don’t help, either. But I’ve gotten this far, and now it’s time for the final volleys, back and forth between phones:

There. That’s a sufficient setup. Christian’s upset, he comes to her house, he’s making a scene outside, she has no choice but to let him in. And when she does, he kills her.

Good. I’m almost done. Almost.

81 Christian

I’m back in my apartment by eight-thirty, after stopping to toss my Grim Reaper costume and boots at the bottom of someone’s garbage can two miles away from Grace Village. And making a second stop to throw away the stupid fucking useless no good handgun Gavin gave me, that jammed up at the very moment I needed it.

I grab the bottle of Basil Hayden like it’s a lifeline and take a swig to calm my nerves.

I did it. I think I got away with it.

Now that I’m home, now that I don’t have to worry about being seen by anybody, I play through it all again.

I was in a costume. Nobody got a look at my face. I wore gloves. My boot prints, if any—well, they’ll match Simon’s boot prints.

I was covered head to toe. No DNA left behind. No fingerprints with the gloves.

I stifle the sounds coming back to me: Lauren Betancourt gagging on the noose. The sound of her neck snapping after I tossed her over the side of the bannister.

It’s over. I did it.

Her or me, I kept telling myself. One of us gets twenty-one million, one of us gets nothing.

Lauren brought this on herself. She did this. She got into the ring with me. She tried to steal my money.

I have no connection to Lauren Betancourt. I have no connection to Vicky or Simon Dobias. I’m just some guy in the city who—

My head whips to the left at the sound of the door from the garage. Someone’s coming in. Gavin? Why would—

“Hello?” I call out, my heart pounding so hard I can hardly speak.

I recognize the sound of her footfalls as she bounds up the stairs. “It’s just me,” Vicky calls out.

I meet her at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here.”

“I had to see you.” She is dressed in a coat, a wool stocking cap with her hair tucked under, and gloves. She puts her gloved hands on my cheeks. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I was going crazy with worry—”

“I’m okay, I’m okay. You shouldn’t be here. I cleaned everything up so there’s no—”

“I’ll keep my gloves on,” she says. “And coat and hat. Don’t worry.”

I don’t put up a fight. I’m right—she shouldn’t be here—but I can’t deny that I’m glad to see her, to have some company right now, some comforting voice.

“So—tell me what happened?”

“What happened is—” I blow out air. “What happened is it’s over. It’s done.”

“It is?” The look on her face, like a combination of relief and alarm.

“Yeah, but listen—it didn’t go as planned. The gun jammed. I got it done, anyway. It’s done, and I don’t see how I left any trace of myself behind.”

“But . . . she’s dead,” Vicky whispers.

“Yes.”

“For sure?”

“For absolute sure.” I grab her arm, pull her toward the kitchen. “You should leave. I want you to stay but you can’t. Go back through the alley.”

“We need to talk,” she says. “About Simon.”

“I thought you could handle Simon,” I say. “What— Okay, what about Simon?”

“I think . . . I think he suspects something.”

“Wait, what? Suspects what?”

“I think . . . he suspects I’m seeing someone.”

“Why?”

“He was . . .” She brushes past me, waving her arms. “He was asking me questions today.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m pouring myself a drink,” she says. “With my gloves on, don’t worry. Sit down and relax. You’re making me more nervous than I already am. Actually . . .”

“Actually what?”

“You should take a shower, Christian. It’ll calm you down. Scrub it all away. Then we can figure this out together.”

As fidgety as I am, a shower sounds perfect.

It helps. I do it fast but efficiently, scrubbing every orifice of my body, head to toe, lathering on soap and washing everything away. When I’m done, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts. I want to shave, but where—where’s my razor? Dammit. Where the fuck is—

“I don’t have forever,” Vicky calls out from the living room.

Okay, fine. I walk back into the room. Vicky, thankfully, has kept on all her winter gear, the cap covering her hair, still wearing the gloves. I’ll probably vacuum again after she leaves, anyway, but she’s unlikely to leave any trace of herself.

“To us,” she says, clinking our glasses of Basil Hayden. Mine’s a healthy one, but I down it in one gulp. I’m not drinking for pleasure tonight. I need to stay calm.

Vicky takes a sip of her drink. “Make sure to wash this glass after I leave,” she says.

“Don’t worry, I will.” Okay. Deep breath and calm down. “What did Simon say?”

She sits next to me on the couch. “He asked me today. Point-blank. He said, ‘Have you been faithful to me?’ He didn’t even say it in an accusatory way. It was more like he was resigned to it. He said, ‘I know things haven’t been like they should for a while.’”

That’s not good. That’s not good at all.

“He’s laying the mattress for the divorce,” I say. “He’s breaking it to you slowly. And he’s trying to make himself feel better about it by accusing you of cheating on him.”

That’s how most people work, in my experience, and I have a lot of experience in breaking up marriages. If they feel guilty about how they’re treating you, they want to turn you into the bad guy. They start to treat you with cruelty.

She looks at her drink. “Maybe so. But now . . .”

“Once he finds out Lauren’s gone, he’ll probably be so stunned that it will drown out everything else.”

“At least until November third,” she says. “Which is all that matters.”

Right, that’s the first hurdle—get to November 3, or Vicky gets cut off completely. Get past that, and we can fix the rest of the damage. I need Vicky and Simon to stay together so she doesn’t have to split the money with him in a divorce. I need them “happily” married, at least for a short time—enough time for her to hand control of the money over to me.

Just keep thinking of that day. Twenty-one million dollars.

“Just be really good to him the next few days and play dumb,” I tell her. It feels good dispensing advice, like I’m more in control of events than I feel.

“He’ll probably hear about Lauren tomorrow,” she says. “It will probably be news tomorrow.”

“So that’s November the first. We just have to get you through two days.”

We can do that. Vicky can pull that off. She has it in her.

“I’ll just sit here for a few minutes,” she says. “It calms me down, seeing you.”

It calms me down, too. I’m definitely feeling better. It worked! I did the job and got away with it.

Or did I screw something up? The feeling of dread washes over me again. I consider the worst-case scenarios. But I don’t see them tying me to either Vicky or Simon.

We sit in silence. Vicky sips her drink. I pour myself another one.

The tension starts to ease. It worked. It did. It worked, and everything’s gonna be all right, like that Bob Marley song.

Why do I always worry so much?

Really, I worry too much. It’s fine. It’s all good.

“You okay?” Vicky asks me.

Better. I’m feeling better. Much, much better.

“It’s all going to work out,” Vicky says. “Our alibis are clean.”

Alibi. That’s a funny word. If you say any word enough times, it sounds funny. Alibi. Ali-bi. Kinda sounds like Ali Baba. Like Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. I remember reading that when I was a kid.

And then I became a thief!

That’s funny.

I don’t know why I was so worried.

Maybe I should use Ali Baba for my next alias. Wait, there’s not going to be a next alias because I’m going to have all the money I need!

“What’s so funny?” Vicky asks me, her head cocked.

“I don’t know, I guess not sleep—not sleeping last night . . . I’m just . . .”

Vicky moves over and straddles me, pressing down on my lap, her face close to mine. “You’re exhausted. You look exhausted. You need sleep, Christian. It’s done now. You did it. Now you should sleep. Tomorrow, we’re one step closer to being together.”

I put my head back against the cushion. “I am, I’m . . . Wow, I’m wiped out.”

“And now you can relax,” she says, putting her hands on my chest. “Nobody’s going to catch us. I’m going to get that twenty-one million, and I’m going to give it to you, and you’re going to turn it into a hundred million.”

I close my eyes, feeling exhaustion sweep over me, the weightlessness of near sleep. “Yes. That’s . . . going to happen.”

She pushes herself off me, gets off the couch.

“Where are you . . .”

“I’m going to wash out my glass, make sure there’s no lipstick or DNA, right?”

“Yeah, ex—exact—exact . . .” My eyes won’t open. I can’t fight it.

What?

“Hi, I’m back.” Vicky straddling me again, her breath on my face. “You seem tired, Christian. Are you ready to sleep, baby?”

My eyes open in slits. “Yeah . . .”

“Okay, you do that. I washed the glass. And you removed all trace of me from this apartment, right?”

I nod. I think I nod. My head moves, I’m pretty sure.

Her finger, her gloved finger, caressing my face, running down my nose.

“I can trust you, right, Christian?”

“You can . . .”

“You’re not planning on stealing the money from me after I give it to you, are you?” Her finger bops me on the nose.

“What . . . n-no . . .”

Something cold under my chin, thrust upward, forcing my head back.

“You’re not just pretending to care about me, are you? Isn’t that what you do? You find a mark, someone who seems unhappy in her marriage, and then pretend to be in love with her so she’ll leave her husband? And then you steal her money?”

Yep, that pretty much sums me up. But how does . . . how does she . . .

I swat with my left hand at whatever’s under my chin. Unable to open my eyes but hearing a sharp, muted thwip of a sound.

“Now just hold on a second,” Vicky whispers. The cold steel thing stuck under my chin again. “This thing isn’t going to hurt you. Here, touch it.”

I touch it. It’s smooth, a long cylindrical shape, like that silencer thingy I used . . .

. . . Wait, why would . . .

“Goodbye, Nick Caracci,” she says.

82 Vicky

His eyes pop open as I pull the trigger. His head jerks backward as the back of his head sprays against the wall. His left hand falls limply onto my leg.

I breathe out. I don’t move for a moment.

I climb off him carefully, holding the gun up in my right hand. I get to my feet and step away, look down at myself. No spatter that I can see. Maybe something microscopic, but nothing visible. I don’t look like someone who just committed murder.

I hold the barrel of the Glock with one gloved hand and unscrew the suppressor with the other. I wish I didn’t have to use a suppressor, but I couldn’t have gunshots heard by the neighbors.

I put the suppressor in my coat pocket. Taking that with me. One more thing.

The gun could’ve fallen out of his hand, but from what I’ve learned from my former cop buddy, Rambo, that doesn’t usually happen. The hand usually stays wrapped around the handle, the finger still on the trigger, as the hand falls to the side after suicide.

I carefully slide the gun into his lame left hand. I won’t risk wrapping his index finger around the trigger. I’ve already fired one more bullet than intended. I don’t need another one.

Hopefully, the two times his hand was near the gun—the first time, when he swatted it away and the gun accidentally discharged, or the second time, when he touched the suppressor—might cause some gunpowder residue to settle on him. Possible but unlikely. There’s not nearly as much GPR when you use a suppressor, anyway.

I remove the bottle of Valium from my pocket. I wrap his right hand around the bottle, impressing his fingers hard on it. Then I unwrap his hand. I take the bottle and spill it over on its side, the pills falling haphazardly to the floor.

Okay. Done. Not perfect, though. God, was I stupid. I should’ve just fired right away. But no, I had to let him know that I knew his name, that I knew his plan. I couldn’t leave well enough alone.

And now I have a bullet up in the corner of the wall to show for it.

I take another long breath. It’s over now. I can’t recover that bullet. I shouldn’t touch anything. I’ve already cleaned, dried, and replaced the glass of bourbon I poured for myself.

And I’ve already cleaned, dried, and replaced the glass of bourbon he drank, removing any trace of the drugs I put in it.

The bottle of bourbon, Basil Hayden, is still sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

I take one more look at him. His eyes are open, looking upward. Looking for forgiveness, Nick?

I head down the stairs and into his garage. I pop open the garage door, walk into the alley, and type in the code on the outside pad. The garage door grinds down behind me. Cool, fresh air on my face.

Things are looking up. Whatever else—

“Hi, Vicky.”

A strong grip on my arm, yanking me, pulling me farther into the alley before I can react.

“Keep those hands where I can see them,” he says. “And don’t even think about screaming.”

The barrel of a gun against my cheek.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Gavin says. “And decide what the fuck is gonna happen next.”

83 Vicky

Gavin walks me halfway down the alley and pushes me into a gangway, dark and empty. He shoves me up against a fence next to a dumpster that shields us from view.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” he says, pressing the gun under my chin, just like I did to Christian.

I close my eyes, shake my head.

“Yes, you do. Tell me or we say goodbye right here. Another streetwalking skank murdered in the city.” He brings his face close to mine. “Fucking tell me.”

“You’re . . . Gavin Finley,” I say through a clenched jaw.

“And Christian?” he demands.

“Nick Caracci.”

“Okay, so you did your homework, Vicky Lanier. Vicky Lanier from Fairmont, West Virginia, right? Ran away from home back in 2003?”

I don’t say anything.

“Which is weird,” he goes on, “because a couple months ago, they found the skeleton of a girl by that name buried in some mountain in West Virginia.”

He knows. He looked me up. But . . . that means Nick knew and didn’t—

“Nick researched you but didn’t update it,” he says. “Me, I just learned your name, so I did my due diligence and read all about the recent discovery of Vicky Lanier from Fairmont, West Virginia, who disappeared in 2003. Maybe I should’ve told him, but Nick, he was so hell-bent on his plan, I figured it was worth a shot. But I thought you might fuck him over, too. And look at that, you did.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. Ever since the real Vicky Lanier’s body was found, I worried this day might come.

I have to get away from Gavin. Just get out of here alive—

“You’re a smart lady, Vicky,” he says in a harsh whisper. “Nick’s dead, Simon’s going to be under investigation for the murder of Lauren Betancourt, probably sitting in jail without bond for murder, and when the moment is right, you’re going to run off with all the money. Am I right?”

He knows about the trust. He knows about Simon. He knows everything.

Well, not everything.

I didn’t close the blinds upstairs before I killed Nick. I meant to. My nerves got the better of me. Gavin must have been watching across the street, whatever he was able to see through the open blinds. He knows I killed his friend.

Don’t answer him. Don’t say anything. Just—

He shoves the gun harder under my chin, pushing the top of my head into the wired fence. “Am I right?” he repeats.

“Yes, you’re right,” I say. Pulse pounding, thinking fast, coming up with nothing but Get away from him.

“I wonder how Simon would take all this,” he says. “He thinks he married someone named Vicky Lanier, with a nice, clean background. I’m guessing you had some reason to use a fake name. A criminal record, maybe? Prostitution? Maybe something worse? A wealthy guy like Simon’s not gonna go for some street whore like you. So you cleaned yourself up and gave yourself a nice, new identity with a spotless background.”

“Yes,” I say, because my head can’t be pushed any harder into this wired fence.

There’s nothing I can do. I don’t have any leverage to fight back, try to break away, while pinned against this fence with a gun under my chin. Anything I try will probably make that gun go off.

“Tell me your real name, Vicky,” he says.

Oh, thank God—he doesn’t know my real name. He didn’t get that far. He doesn’t have my fingerprints.

I can’t let that happen. I can’t ever let Gavin know my real identity. I’ll die right here before I let that happen.

“Tell me, you stupid twat.” He removes the gun from under my chin and smacks me across the cheek with his other hand. Then he pushes me back against the fence and presses the gun against my forehead. “Tell me right now or you’re—”

“Never,” I say. “Shoot me if you want.”

He watches me a moment, considers that. But he doesn’t pull the trigger. He’s not here to kill me. If he was, he’d have already done it.

“Well, now, that’s interesting,” he says. “But you know what? I don’t care what your real name is. Let’s just cut to the chase, Vicky. Your marriage is a fraud. You got married under a stolen identity. And if that little nugget of information were to come out, you don’t get a dime of that money.”

My legs start to give out.

“So I want half,” he says. “Or you get nothing. November third. That’s the date you get your hands on the money, right?”

I can’t speak. I try to nod, but the gun is basically imprinted on my forehead.

“November third,” he says. “I come to you. And you transfer half to me. Ten million dollars. We’ll keep it a nice, round number.”

“How—how?” I whisper.

“Don’t worry about how. I’ll handle how. So between now and November third, Vicky, you be awfully nice to that husband of yours. That’s just two days. Keep him happy. Spread your legs nice and wide for him. You have a lot of practice doing that, right?”

He shoves me hard, the fence contracting with my weight. I fall to the ground, on my hands and knees, next to some old moving box and a bag of fast food.

“If you run, Vicky, or fuck with me in any way, I’ll tell Simon everything. All those ten years you’ve worked for this money will be down the toilet. And don’t even think about doing to me what you did to Nick. Nick didn’t see you coming. I do.”

“It’ll look . . . suspicious,” I say. “Three days after she’s dead, I transfer ten million dollars to an anonymous account.”

He kicks me in the ribs. I buckle under the pain, landing face-first into the dingy alley.

“I don’t give a fuck what looks suspicious,” he says. “That’s your problem. You can decide, Vicky. What do you prefer, a little suspicion? Or never seeing one nickel of that money? That’s not a hard choice. You’ll think of something. Oh,” he says as he walks away, “and Happy Halloween.”

84 Simon

I step around the shattered bowl of Halloween candy, move around Lauren’s dead body, and take the stairs up to the second story of Lauren’s home, making sure to stomp my feet and make the boot impressions as I go up. It’s a bit awkward, wearing this long robe. Hell, it’s been awkward all night, walking around with size thirteen boots on my size eleven feet.

I reach the second story. There is blood on the floor, not far from where the rope is tied around the whirls and shapes making up this ornate wrought iron bannister. Is this bannister going to hold, with Lauren hanging from it? Probably so. It looks well-made. Not that I care either way.

I can’t waste time. Every second counts. Maybe someone did call the cops, and maybe they are on their way, but if I get my work done in just a minute or so, maybe I can get out of here before they arrive.

Start with the most important thing, the pink phone. If nothing else, the pink phone.

The blood on the floor is where the struggle occurred. Whatever happened, however it happened, it happened here. I imagine it. Yes, I imagine the struggle, her terror, her pain.

There’s a small brown table with curved legs here in the hallway. On top is a vase of fresh flowers and a framed photo of Lauren and her husband, Conrad.

There is a shelf below the top of the table.

If I leave the phone just sitting out, the cops will wonder why the killer didn’t take it with him. It needs to be out of sight.

It needs to have slid away during the struggle. And Christian, panicked, not thinking straight, either never thought to look for it or didn’t want to spend the time.

I squat down, careful to avoid the blood, and gently place the pink phone on the wood floor. I slide it hard toward the table.

Shit. It stopped short. Okay, well, then I guess there was more of a struggle and it somehow got whacked again.

I reach down and put my gloved finger on the top of the pink phone. I slide it again, this time making sure it slides all the way under that little table, obscured by that bottom shelf.

There. So that works. In his haste, in the heat and confusion after killing the woman he loved, Christian didn’t see the phone, and he was too panicked, so he just ran.

But I’m not quite ready to run yet.

I jar the table hard, a serious shove. The vase tumbles over and falls to the floor, spraying some water, pieces of the vase everywhere. The framed photo of Lauren and Conrad topples flat on its face. The artwork right above it doesn’t move. That’s fine.

Do I stop now? Turn around and leave?

I could. But I’m going to finish this.

I leave my boots right there, slipping out of them, which is easier than it normally might be, given that they’re two sizes too big for my feet.

I look around this area by the table. No obvious sign of blood here.

I do a small jump, anyway, just in case, and land in my socks a couple feet from the master bedroom, my trick-or-treat bag in hand.

I head inside the bedroom, find the master bathroom, and open the medicine cabinet to finish my business.

Panic has set in, the post-adrenaline fear. I’ve gotten away from the house, walked through this little town in my Grim Reaper costume without notice, without seeing a police car, reaching the park through which I can diagonally walk to leave Grace Village and enter Grace Park.

But the panic, no matter how much I try to fight it, no matter how many word games I play to calm myself, leaves my legs nearly useless, so I duck behind the park district’s equipment shed. I drop down and lean against the shed, remove the hood, remove the Obama mask, my head hot, my hair wet with sweat.

I fish around in my trick-or-treat bag, my large pillowcase. It’s a lot lighter now that I’m wearing the Grim Reaper costume, not carrying it around. I have a large kitchen knife that I brought, just in case, but don’t need it now.

I need to calm myself. I pull out the green phone and start typing:

But I don’t hit “send.” Not yet. That comes later. I copy it, just in case it disappears when I open it up later. Then I put the phone in my lap. I hold out my hand, palm down, and stare at it. It remains utterly still and steady.

Okay, I feel better now. I’m ready.

I put the Obama mask back on, pull up the hood, and walk toward Harlem Avenue. It’s a busy intersection, and it’s not hard to find a cab. The cabdriver looks at me funny, given my costume, given that he can’t even see my face, but hey, it’s Halloween, and the five twenty-dollar bills I hand him when I get inside the cab seem to relieve any concern he might have.

“Wicker Park,” I tell the cabbie.

I keep my head down so there’s no chance he sees my face. As for my voice, well, I’m not good with disguising it, but I try to sound hoarse and even cough a little to add to the effect.

He’s playing pop music in the cab, something by Panic! at the Disco, so clearly somebody up there thinks I deserve punishment for what I’ve done.

“North, Damen, and Milwaukee,” I specify.

Just a couple blocks from Christian’s house.