26
As I approach my neighborhood, a sense of passivity takes over. There’s no willpower in my legs. I allow myself to merely move forward, drawn by sheer habit. I’ll pass the Storm family’s house on the way to my own door, that’s all. But then it looms before me, and my legs stop walking. I stare at the pastel-colored façade, into the kitchen I otherwise see only from a distance. It’s the middle of the day, and no one is home. Leo is at school, Philip is at work, and Veronica… Well, if I’d had the wherewithal to note which bus she had taken, maybe that would have told me something. As it stands, I have no idea. She’s not home, at any rate, that’s for sure.
Leo’s key weighs nothing, but even so I feel its weight in my pants pocket. Then I’m suddenly holding it in my hand again, staring at it. It’s like it has sunken into me, hooked itself into my flesh. I take a few steps closer to the door and study the black plaque on the wall next to it. THE STORMS. Did Veronica have this made? I ring the bell, wait a bit, and then ring again. It’s inexplicable. I mean, I know that no one’s home, but my hands move as if they have a life of their own. There are no audible footsteps on the other side. Nothing happens aside from seconds ticking by.
I happen to think of the old woman who caught me staring at the Storms’ house just a few days ago. If she shows up again, if she sees me standing around loitering right outside their door, she’s going to be really suspicious. Maybe she’ll tell Philip and Veronica. Maybe she’ll simply call the police. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder—no one there—before I insert the key into the lock and turn it once. It clicks, and the door slides open. The same flow that was pulling me past this house just a bit ago is now pulling me into it. No intentionality needed. I would have to make an active choice to walk away from here now, and that choice would require effort.
I carefully close the door and stand for a few seconds in the entryway. This place is extremely tidy. The jackets and coats are hanging in neat rows on hooks; nothing has been tossed on the floor. I take off my shoes and keep my vest on. Immediately to the left of the entryway is the kitchen. I give it a quick glance from the doorway. Everything in there is white, but I already knew that. No mail sorted into untidy stacks, no magnets or notes on the fridge.
When I turn around, I see the little plastic device mounted on the wall inside the front door. Of course the Storm family has an alarm. I should have realized that. I’m ready to hurry back out again when I realize that the little unit isn’t blinking or beeping. The alarm doesn’t appear to have been triggered. Although I should get out of here. Soon.
The first floor is partly a mirror version of the layout of the town house I’m living in, but larger and with an additional room. The living room is furnished in a minimalist style with nicely plumped-up throw pillows evenly spaced along the large corner sofa. There’s an office with a magazine rack, a stacked in tray and shelves filled with law texts, and then something that looks like a guest room. There’s a bed in there with a crocheted afghan and a little desk with a computer. There’s also an easel and a chest of drawers. There’s nothing on the easel, but when I pull out the top drawer of the chest, I find several sketches. They’re painted in dark, muted palettes and the motif is the same in all of them: a woman pulling off a man’s head.
I’m just about to open the next drawer down when I hear something and stiffen. Somewhere in the house, a phone is ringing. I freeze, listen, and wait until the ringtones fade away, until nothing besides my breathing can be heard. Less than a minute later, I’m back out in the hall, heading for the shoes I’d set on the doormat. But then my hand settles on the railing to the stairs that lead to the second floor, and my body turns a different direction. The bedrooms, the heart of the home, are up there. I remember what Leo had said: That writing handbook I borrowed from you is in my room, by the way, next to the computer. If you need it. I feel a sort of relief. I have a reason to be here. Actually the text I’m writing has reached the point where I need to browse through old books to gain inspiration to proceed. I’ll retrieve the book Leo borrowed, and then I’ll get out of here.
The stairs creak softly beneath me as I slowly make my way upstairs. The bathroom door is open, and I glimpse ocean-pebble tile, a mosaic on the walls, and fluffy towels. On either side of the bathroom are two rooms, both with their doors closed. I press down the handle to one of them, push open the door, and look in.
If the rest of the house is done in a minimalist style and bordering on clinically clean, this is where the chaos has sought refuge. There’s not a single clean surface in here, not on the floor, not on the furniture. T-shirts and jeans are strewn all over the unmade bed. There are books lying open all over the floor, evidence that someone got up in the middle of reading, and the desk is completely cluttered with paper and notepads. My writing handbook is on the top of one of the piles. I take a few steps over to it and grab it. There. Now go. Hurry before anyone comes.
I back out of Leo’s room and close the door behind me. I want to leave everything as it was, don’t want to leave any traces. Then I look at the book in my hand. If I take it with me, Leo will know that I was in here. He said it was OK for me to retrieve the book, and practically encouraged me to come get it. And yet the thought of having to explain to him that I… why I… It gives me a weird feeling. I quickly open the door again and place the book back on top of the same pile where I found it.
Then I go back down the stairs. No, that’s not right. I think that I go down the stairs. What I actually do is crack open the door to the room across from Leo’s. There is a king bed in there with a thick, luxurious bedspread and a curved headboard. I slip into the room, around the bed, and over to the window with the heavy curtains. They’re still drawn. The nightstand closest to the window is covered with fashion magazines, but there’s also a little box. I try to open it, but it’s locked. I move the magazines out of the way and run my hand along the top of the nightstand but don’t find a key. My heart is pounding. What does Veronica keep in that box? What is so secret that she needs to lock it up and hide the key?
I put the stack of magazines back, but my hands are trembling so much that several of them fall on the floor. When I bend down to pick them up, I see something gleaming under the bed, a long narrow metal object. A knife. The sight of it gives me a thrill, and I am just about to reach for it when I hear the front door open and close downstairs. Someone is inside.
A few seconds of silence follow. I squat behind the bed, frozen in midmotion, shocked by the presence of another person in the house. Is there any way for me to get out of here unnoticed? A series of crazy ideas race through my head: Hide under the bed, climb out the window. Cautious steps move across the wood floor down there, stop at the foot of the stairs. I hold my breath. Then I hear a questioning call from below, and I get to my feet. There’s only one alternative: to meet face-to-face.
I leave the bedroom, walk slowly to the top of the stairs, and show myself.
“Hi,” I say. “I just stopped by to pick up that book you borrowed.”
“Hi,” Leo says. “That’s great.”
But he doesn’t look me in the eye. His gaze is locked on my hands—my empty hands.