A flurry of back-and-forths to follow. It’s not so easy wearing gloves, though these are running gloves, designed specifically so joggers could wear them while playing with their phones, switching up music or whatever. My shaking hands don’t help, either. But I’ve gotten this far, and now it’s time for the final volleys, back and forth between phones:

What are you doing have you lost your mind??

Stop kicking my door I’m going to call the police

There. That’s a sufficient setup. Christian’s upset, he comes to her house, he’s making a scene outside, she has no choice but to let him in. And when she does, he kills her.

Good. I’m almost done. Almost.

81

Christian

I’m back in my apartment by eight-thirty, after stopping to toss my Grim Reaper costume and boots at the bottom of someone’s garbage can two miles away from Grace Village. And making a second stop to throw away the stupid fucking useless no good handgun Gavin gave me, that jammed up at the very moment I needed it.

I grab the bottle of Basil Hayden like it’s a lifeline and take a swig to calm my nerves.

I did it. I think I got away with it.

Now that I’m home, now that I don’t have to worry about being seen by anybody, I play through it all again.

I was in a costume. Nobody got a look at my face. I wore gloves. My boot prints, if any—well, they’ll match Simon’s boot prints.

I was covered head to toe. No DNA left behind. No fingerprints with the gloves.

I stifle the sounds coming back to me: Lauren Betancourt gagging on the noose. The sound of her neck snapping after I tossed her over the side of the bannister.

It’s over. I did it.

Her or me, I kept telling myself. One of us gets twenty-one million, one of us gets nothing.

Lauren brought this on herself. She did this. She got into the ring with me. She tried to steal my money.

I have no connection to Lauren Betancourt. I have no connection to Vicky or Simon Dobias. I’m just some guy in the city who—

My head whips to the left at the sound of the door from the garage. Someone’s coming in. Gavin? Why would—

“Hello?” I call out, my heart pounding so hard I can hardly speak.

I recognize the sound of her footfalls as she bounds up the stairs. “It’s just me,” Vicky calls out.

I meet her at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here.”

“I had to see you.” She is dressed in a coat, a wool stocking cap with her hair tucked under, and gloves. She puts her gloved hands on my cheeks. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I was going crazy with worry—”

“I’m okay, I’m okay. You shouldn’t be here. I cleaned everything up so there’s no—”

“I’ll keep my gloves on,” she says. “And coat and hat. Don’t worry.”

I don’t put up a fight. I’m right—she shouldn’t be here—but I can’t deny that I’m glad to see her, to have some company right now, some comforting voice.

“So—tell me what happened?”

“What happened is—” I blow out air. “What happened is it’s over. It’s done.”

“It is?” The look on her face, like a combination of relief and alarm.

“Yeah, but listen—it didn’t go as planned. The gun jammed. I got it done, anyway. It’s done, and I don’t see how I left any trace of myself behind.”

“But . . . she’s dead,” Vicky whispers.

“Yes.”

“For sure?”

“For absolute sure.” I grab her arm, pull her toward the kitchen. “You should leave. I want you to stay but you can’t. Go back through the alley.”

“We need to talk,” she says. “About Simon.”

“I thought you could handle Simon,” I say. “What— Okay, what about Simon?”

“I think . . . I think he suspects something.”

“Wait, what? Suspects what?”

“I think . . . he suspects I’m seeing someone.”

“Why?”

“He was . . .” She brushes past me, waving her arms. “He was asking me questions today.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m pouring myself a drink,” she says. “With my gloves on, don’t worry. Sit down and relax. You’re making me more nervous than I already am. Actually . . .”

“Actually what?”

“You should take a shower, Christian. It’ll calm you down. Scrub it all away. Then we can figure this out together.”

As fidgety as I am, a shower sounds perfect.

—

It helps. I do it fast but efficiently, scrubbing every orifice of my body, head to toe, lathering on soap and washing everything away. When I’m done, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts. I want to shave, but where—where’s my razor? Dammit. Where the fuck is—