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 leanagainst 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.
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’shouse.
THE DAYS AFTERHALLOWEEN
85
Jane
“Thanks, Simon. See you tonight.” The meeting with Simon Dobias confirmed, Jane Burke punches off her phone and looks around the master bedroom inside Lauren Betancourt’s house. It is spacious and nicely decorated but not as ostentatious as she might have expected. Simple and elegant. High ceilings and ornate crown molding, large flat-screen TV with torchlights on each side, a fireplace below. No chests of drawers in the main living room; those are reserved for the walk-in closet. Must be nice.
“Today would be great. As soon as possible.” Andy kills his phone and looks at Jane. “The chief security officer at the Grant Thornton Tower is sending us a list of all companies in their building and everyone who has been assigned a key card,” he says. “We should have it by day’s end. That’ll be an exhaustive list of everyone working in the old Chicago Title & Trust Building, as your FBI friend put it. Did you talk to Dobias?”
“I talked to Simon, yeah. We’re going to his house at eight tonight.”
She checks her watch. What a day so far. Feels like it should be midnight, not four-thirty in the afternoon. It’s only November 2, day two of this investigation, and it feels like week twenty.
“His house? Not the station?”
She shrugs. “I want to see his house. And I wanted to see how he’d react to the idea of my being in his house.”