61
Vicky
Nobody pays attention to a woman in workout clothes, power walking through a neighborhood, headphones on, even if nobody recognizes her, even if she tends to stop on the sidewalk outside a particular house every day. For men, it’s different. Strange men who linger are creepy, potential stalkers, someone to keep an eye on. A woman? A woman can walk a regular route every day and nobody will notice.
From what I can tell, nobody’s noticed me all these weeks, casually passing Lauren’s house, sometimes stopping briefly, but just briefly, looking down at my phone like I just got an important text that stopped me in my tracks. I’m just a harmless female, after all.
Sometimes I drive by her house instead of walking, but a car is different, more noticeable, more likely to arouse curiosity. I only use the car at night, and only for a few minutes.
During the daylight hours, though, like right now at eight-thirty on a Thursday morning, passing her house on foot is the preferred option. And, of course, I can rig my route so that I circle back and pass her house a second time if need be.
Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank, to her credit, has not altered much of her daily routine, even with the changing of the seasons. Around eight every morning, she goes for a three-mile run through Grace Village. She still keeps a regular tennis appointment at ten-thirty in the morning, every weekday, at the Grace Country Club. She still has lunch with her tennis partner and then meets a foursome for golf at one.
It’s enough to exhaust me just thinking about it. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank has to keep that nice, tight figure of hers, doesn’t she?
I wonder what the plan is once the weatherreallystarts turning, the way the weather can turn in Chicago. Was she planning to bundle up and keep hitting those tennis courts and playing eighteen holes of golf? At some point, you’d think she’d have to call off those outdoor sports, if nothing else when the snow starts arriving.
But it’s a moot point now. Lauren will never see another winter in Chicago or anywhere else. She has, let’s see... today is Thursday... that’s about 106 hours before trick-or-treating ends on Monday night.
Halloween will be perfect. She’ll be home, it will be dark, and Christian can move around in acostume, for God’s sake, without anyone thinking it odd. Two minutes before seven, already pretty dark out, trick-or-treating petering out, Christian steps into that private little brick canopy around her front door, she opens the door, he shoots her with a silencer, wham bam thank you ma’am. And he walks away as everyone shuts off their lights all at once, making an already dark night pitch-black.
I’m surprised more people don’t get murdered on Halloween.
Thank God that Christian—
Oh, why do I bother thinking of him as Christian? Force of habit, I guess. I’ve been so afraid I might let the name “Nick” slip out that I’ve forced myself to think of him only by his alias—Christian Newsome, Christian Newsome, Christian Newsome!
Thank God that Christian came up with the idea for Halloween night for killing Lauren so I didn’t have to do it for him. Men and their egos.
The idea of framing Simon, too—also his idea. Another thing I didn’t want to have to mention. It’s so, so much better when they think it was their idea. Lucky for me, Christian doesn’t lack for confidence.
I wonder if he talked to his buddy Gavin about all this. Yes, I know about him, too. I never liked homework in high school, but I’ve warmed to it recently.
They probably came up with this stuff together. They probably ran through it for hours, considering every possibility. They probably discussed how Christian should “prepare” me for the idea of murder. And for the idea to pin it on Simon—as if that wasn’t the most important part of this for me.
Speaking of... If I were interested in inviting myself into Lauren’s house while she wasn’t home, what would be the best way to do it?
The front of the house—no. The front door is covered by a brick canopy, which makes for nice privacy, but I doubt she leaves the front door unlocked as a practice. To the left of the front door is the three-car garage, so that’s no help. To the right of the front door—my right, north—is a large window and shrubbery and garden. You can probably see into the house, but I doubt that window even opens, and trying to pry it open in front of everyone walking and driving up and down Lathrow Avenue would be about the dumbest thing in the world.
I’m thinking the south side, beyond the garage, along the gangway between the house and the large wooden border fence, where a window has been propped open for the past five days. Probably a kitchen window. It looks tall and wide enough for me to fit through. I may have to punch out a screen.
Oh, and here she comes right now, jogging up Lathrow Avenue, finishing up her three-mile run—the beautiful, sexy Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank, wearing those aqua running tights that probably give every man she passes a hard-on.
Sheisgorgeous, I will have to give her that. I can’t fault Simon for falling for her.
Oh, sure I can.
So it’s time to keep moving, just a casual, up-tempo walk in my workout clothes, headphones on, not even looking in her direction as she passes me.
Enjoy the rest of your life, Lauren. You have five days left.
—
I walk back to my car, parked up by the elementary school (one place where you can park by the curb and nobody thinks much of it), and drive back to Grace Park. I park in the alley garage, as always, and walk into the house through the private rear entrance.
There is a coat closet by the back door that Simon never uses. I open it and pull out the Halloween outfit I bought for Christian, an oafish robe with a long hood. I bought it at one of those seasonal Halloween storesthat opens just in October, renting vacant commercial space and hanging those gaudy signs.
I paid for it in cash, of course. I put my hair up, wore a baseball cap, wore fake eyeglasses and a puffy coat. I didn’t see any security cameras in there, but if they were there, they couldn’t possibly make me out.