I step inside, work around his car, and close the door behind me. I flip on the overhead light.
I put down my bag and pull off my Grim Reaper costume. I leave on the Obama mask; better to keep my head covered for now, avoid DNA residue. I want to remove my boots, painful as hell to wear, being two sizes toolarge, but I need to tromp up the stairs in them first. Then I’ll kick them off and put on the shoes I brought, that I’m carrying in my trick-or-treat bag.
I blow out air. Here goes nothing.
I open the downstairs door and listen. All I hear is the drumming of my heart.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
—
I drop the Grim Reaper costume onto Christian’s bed. I place the boots near his feet by the couch, trying to simulate him kicking them off his feet. Doesn’t really matter. Just can’t look too perfect or tidy.
Christian must have disposed ofhiscostume and boots. I’d be disappointed in him if he hadn’t.
I open the green phone, which I’ve left turned on. The suicide note I typed while in the park is still there, ready to be sent. I hit“send.”It registers as sent at 10:47 p.m.
I power the phone off and take a look around.
Well, you tried to make it look like a suicide, didn’t you, Vicky? And I have to say, it looks pretty good. The gun right by his hand on the couch. Open bottle of bourbon. A bottle of pills spilled all over the place.
Did you enjoy doing it, Vicky? Was it harder than you thought?
No, I’m pretty sure you enjoyedit.
THE DAYS AFTERHALLOWEEN
89
Vicky
Whoever first said “the waiting is the hardest part” didn’t know the half of it.
I’m at work, doing inventory in the kitchen for another grocery run. Usually I go on Monday, but Monday was Halloween, and I (obviously) didn’t work that day. And yesterday, Tuesday, was one of those days that all plans went awry and we had to put out small fires—the stove wasn’t working, one of the abusive husbands showed up demanding to speak to his wife, we had three new women come in with various bruises or welts or burns, one with an infant.
Even today, Wednesday, November 2, has been crazy. It’s already nearly four o’clock and it feels like my shift just began.
But that’s good. I’ve worked double shifts both days since Halloween. Focusing on these women and their children at the shelter has kept my mind off Gavin and the investigation.
I hear a car pulling up, tires crunching over gravel. Safe Haven’s been around thirty years, and we still don’t have a paved parking lot, could never spare the funds. But for me, it has the benefit that people can’t drive up without being heard.
I check. Every time I’ve heard a car arriving these last two days, I’ve checked. Is it Gavin? Is it the police?
I don’t know which would be worse. Gavin could only find this place by following me. He wouldn’t have known where I work from Christian—Nick. I told Nick I volunteered at a nonprofit shelter (only half true; I don’tget paid much, but I do get paid). But I never gave a name. I didn’t want him ever coming here.
If Gavin knows where I work, then he’ll also know my name, my real name, Vicky Townsend. We get half our money from state grants, so we are an open book. My name and prints are on file with the state, after the fingerprint-based background check they did on me.
I walk over to the window. A police squad car is parked in the lot. Two uniformed officers, with their swagger and gear, heading for our front door.
Go back to what you’re doing. Check the groceries. Clip out coupons. It’s an ordinary day. You don’t know anything. Christian Newsome? Never heard of him. Nick Caracci? Nope.
They can’t be here for me, can they? Did they find a stray fingerprint, which would have immediately matched for Vicky Townsend—
“Vicky.” Miriam, my boss, sticks her head into the kitchen.