“Not gonna be sick.” I shake my head, which I think comes across even while wearing this large hood over my head. “I fucked up. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.”
I try to keep my voice a harsh, whispery staccato, not revealing too much of my real voice or speech pattern, because one thing I don’t know is how Christian talks.
“Do you need me to do something?” he says.
I wave my hands. I don’t want to take this too far. The last thing I need is for him to drive me to a hospital or, God forbid, a police station.
“You sure you’ll be okay, sir? Do you want some change back?”
I wave at the driver and get out of his cab in Wicker Park, at the three-way intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee, one of my favorite spots in the city. It’s near ten, so the night is young around here, the streets filled with people, many costumed up like me.
It’s nice to be out of that cab. Leaning over the whole time so the cabbie wouldn’t get a look at my face wasn’t the most comfortable position, especially during a herky-jerky ride. I keep my head down now, too, for obvious reasons, but fortunately I don’t have far to walk.
When I get to Winchester, I turn up, north, toward Christian’s apartment.
A few people are heading toward me, a group of three gabbing, one looking at a phone. I don’t feel like engaging in conversation, so I hold my green burner phone against my ear, or more accurately to the hood covering my head, and nod and talk in a low voice as they pass me. “Creepy,” one of the people says, but I just keep walking.
Nobody else around, no police squad cars, no traffic. The streets are lined up and down with parked cars, street parking being as scarce as it is. The three-flats and apartment buildings are well-lit; most people around here are still awake, still doing things inside their apartments if not out and about tonight. Basically an ordinary Chicago street on a fairly ordinary night. Halloween is an occasion for some adults, sure, but with it falling on a Monday, most people who wanted to throw a costume party probably did so over the weekend.
I look up into the picture window at Christian Newsome’s apartment. The blinds are down but open, so visibility isn’t great, but you can see in. Nobody moving around in there, at least.
Are you home, Christian?
Are you dead, Christian?
Did Vicky kill you after you ably performed your task and killed Lauren?
I sure hope so! Otherwise, you’re gonna be really surprised to see me.
Viva Mediterránea’s outdoor patio is empty, given the cold. The alley is empty.
Just me, standing next to the keypad by Christian’s garage. I type in the pass code and the garage grinds open.
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 too large, 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 of his costume 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 enjoyed it.
THE DAYS AFTER HALLOWEEN
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’t get 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.
I look over at her, raise my eyebrows, afraid my voice might shake. Just turning my head causes pain in my ribs, the spot where Gavin kicked me two nights ago.
“The heater’s not working upstairs,” she says. “Surprise, surprise.”
“It— Oh.” Relief floods through me. “Want me to take a look?”
“You’re the only one who has a prayer of fixing it.”
“Sure. Who— Was someone at the door?”
“Cops. They want to talk to the woman who came here two nights ago, Jamie. About pressing charges against her husband.”
I shake out my nerves and take several deep breaths. They’re not here for me.
I go to work on the radiator upstairs in Dorm A. Lacking air-conditioning is one thing, but we have to keep this place warm. Last winter, the heat went out in February. We scrambled for blankets and space heaters and prayed that we didn’t burn the place down.