Do Not Disturb

Okay, so a new plan. I’ll mentally act out my fantasy and then, in the brief moment of sanity after a fantasy exploration, call the cops. Quickly, before I lose my fortitude. It is a good plan. The right thing to do. Safe for all involved parties. I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself to give up this opportunity. Mourn, for a brief moment, the death of what was going to be a kick-ass takedown. Then I curl into a tight ball, my arms gripping my legs tightly, my head dropping, eyes scrunched close and imagine the elevator, its announcement of this asshole’s arrival.

For the thirty-first time since I stepped back into this apartment, my arsenal in hand, the elevator suddenly moves, wheezing and screeching its way up the tower of our building. I stop breathing, my tight ball loosening as I raise my head and tense. Wait to see if I am imagining this or if it is real. It is. It’s real and my good intentions are too fucking late.

I tried. I really did try. I had a plan and a goal to be good. I said good-bye to my opportunity and wrapped myself into a ball. I was walking away, was going to let the police handle this. I tried. I failed. Fate intervened and kicked my good intentions’ ass.

I wait, my head up, ears straining. The lights are off. When I first turned them off, it was a shock, my eyes blind in the dark. But now, three hours later, they have adjusted. Even if they hadn’t adjusted, even if I were blind—I know every inch of this apartment, my familiarity a by-product of three and a half years spent in nine hundred square feet. I can jump, crawl, or handstand my way through this space blindfolded. He does not know this space. He will not have any idea of what he is walking into. I hear the elevator shudder to a stop. The sixth floor. Jackpot. This might be it, the chances one in fourteen that he is headed to me. I stand, my back leaving the boxes, and listen. Strain for footsteps, wish that we had a hardwood hall as opposed to silent carpet. Move to the peephole, see a stranger move closer, closer. See his pause at my door.

Then, I see the soft motion of the knob. It’s a new one, swapped out two hours ago for the crappiest one Home Depot carries. It moves gently. Quietly. And I know that he is here.

I ignore the knock when it arrives. I am too busy.

He thinks I am unaware. He thinks I am helpless. He has no idea who he is dealing with.

CHAPTER 86

APARTMENT #6E. MARCUS stares at the sticker on the door. The edges are curled, as if one strong breeze might pull the brittle sticker off. He leans close, lifting his hand and covering the peephole. A presumptuous action, one that assumes she’s sitting on the other side, her eye pressed to the glass, for no reason whatsoever. Reaching down, he gently works the knob, verifies that it is locked. Smart girl. Too bad this knob is shit, one that a credit card could work open with three plastic attempts. It looks new. She was probably trying to be safe. Should have spent more. Should have gone with a brand that isn’t carried in Dollar General. Safety shouldn’t be skimped on. He reaches up and knocks. His mouth curves at the recollection of a prison session, Mikel squatting in the dirt, hands rubbing vigorously on his knees as he spouted the proper rules of home invasion. Marcus had listened with half an ear, relaxing in the sun, occasionally glancing over at Mikel’s intent face. But some of it had stuck. Rule Number One: Don’t break in if they’ll open the door. Breaking in puts a mark on edge, gives them a moment to reach for their phone, call the cops, a neighbor, or grab a gun. No one thinks a killer will knock. A smiling face disarms. Marcus obeys, paints a casual, offhand look on his face, lounges against the door frame, and runs the lines through his head. Just moved in. Got locked out. Do you have the super’s number? I’m John. Hand out, that bland smile that people look through and forget. She’ll help. No one wants to appear an unhelpful bitch, even if they are one. Inside, he’ll subdue her, use a syringe if need be. Don a mask and leave it on until the work is done.

There is no answer. He glances at his watch, surprised at the lack of response, notices the scratch on its face. Wonders if that happened during the struggle with the boy. Fuck. He’ll need a new face. The watch hands point to ten p.m. Maybe she is out. The skank letting some guy grope all over those great tits, someone other than him. He frowns. Her bringing someone home will be problematic. Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, he thinks. Knocks again, harder this time.

He’s been in this hallway too long. It’s just a matter of time until someone walks by, sees him. She’s not home. Three knocks is enough. Two minutes is enough time for someone to get off the toilet. To call out a “just a sec.” He reaches for his wallet. Pulls out a credit card and slips it into the jamb.