“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 a 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 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:
I’m sorry, Lauren. I’m sorry for what I did and I’m sorry you didn’t love me. But I’m not sorry for loving you like nobody else could. I’m coming to you now. I hope you’ll accept me and let me love you in a way you wouldn’t in this world.