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?