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:
Testing... testing... 1, 2, 3... testing, testing... 1, 2, 3
Then I focus on the other burner, the pink phone, and type a response that feels appropriate under the circumstances:
Not home, told you out of town
Followed by a quick reply with the green phone:
That’s strange coulda sworn I just saw you walking through the family room I must be seeing ghosts!
Which requires a prompt, shocked response from the pink phone:
You’re outside my house????
And the reasonable, reassuring reply from the green phone:
Just want to talk that’s all
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:
Nothing to talk about please go home please!
Let me in treat me like an adult. I know you still love me. Why pretend you don’t?
Go home ACT like an adult I’m sorry you know I am but it’s over
What are you doing have you lost your mind??
Stop kicking my door I’m going to call the police
Go ahead call them I dare you
I will let you in if you promise to be calm
I promise I swear
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.