I’m not leaving to kill.

I’m not leaving to kill.

I’m not leaving to kill.

I repeat the words and pretend to believe them. I can do this. I can leave the house at night. Just cross the street. Ice cream. I’ve gotten ice cream before. Ice cream and lotto. Maybe scratch-off or maybe I’ll buy my Powerball early.

I’m not leaving to kill.

I twist the knob and pull open the last barrier before me.

CHAPTER 55

FINALLY AT HIS destination, Marcus slips gloves on, working finger by finger through the leather, flexing his hands when complete, his heart thudding quicker than it ever has, excitement flooding him.

Finally.

Now.

He has waited so long.

He turns off the car and surveys the shitty street before him.

CHAPTER 56

I AM NAKED. A piece of my sanity speaks up, the warm air of the hall hitting my skin, a sharp contrast to the icy chill of my apartment. I pause, the heel of my foot stopping the closing of the door. I look down at small breasts and bare legs. No weapon. Not that I need one. Not that I am leaving to kill. No one ever strangled someone to death with sexuality. I step back, like a jerky video set in rewind, left-right-left until my door swings shut and I am back in 6E. I move to my bed, bend before the stack of clothes, and grab sweatpants and a T-shirt, pulling them on without undergarments, my movement quick. I snatch a hair elastic off the bathroom sink and pull my long hair back into a messy bun. Grab a baseball cap of Jeremy’s and tug it on, a quick glance into the mirror letting me know that I am good.

Ice cream.

A paper ticket that might hold a fortune.

Proof that I can handle freedom.

Without allowing myself to think, I push aside cardboard towers, squeezing back into the far corner of my apartment, my hands shaking in excitement by the time I reach my safe.

I spin the dial, 22-31-14, the gritty scrape of metal on metal giving way, and the door swings open. My eyes dance over the selection as the reality of what I am doing pushes its way into my mind. Is this who I am? A girl who can’t take a single night without supervision? Ice cream. Lotto. I step back. Stare at the 9mm that leans against the right side of the space. It’s loaded; I keep it loaded, with one in the chamber. I step another few steps back and fumble on the bed for my cell. Have trouble finding it among the tangle of my sheets. I dial the number I know by heart and hold it to my ear.

It rings and rings. With every ring the sound fades, and all I hear is the pounding in my head. The bellowing knock of insanity, it bangs at the inside of my skull and pushes me forward. I step forward as the phone rings, closer to the safe. Ring. My hand reaches out, tugs out the gun. Ring. It is cold in my hand but warm with possibilities. Ring. I heft it, feel the weight of it, then put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt, my finger light on the trigger. I will not kill anyone. It will be my protection. Ice cream. Lotto. I prefer my killing to be done with knives; I like blood, appreciate the close contact of manually cutting through a soul and watching it run, like uncontrolled tears, out of a body.

I know. Probably shouldn’t stick that into the “Favorite Activities” section of a Match.com profile. I hang up the phone when his voice mail begins. Stick the cell in my pocket and head for the door, my conscience unable to be heard above the ringing in my ears.

I realize, at the moment that I step on the elevator, that I forgot shoes. My bare feet squish against the carpet, my mouth curling into a grimace as the stick of carpet lingers when I step forward. I freeze, midstep, in the middle of a pad that no doubt contains vomit and urine in its fibers. Bumping the “1” button with my elbow, I breathe through my mouth, trying to think of anything but the wet consistency of rotted carpet against my soles. I grab a moment of indecision and close my eyes. Pray. Pray that I won’t kill Marilyn from 6B or a family of four unpacking food-stamp groceries in our parking lot. I don’t need a gun to buy ice cream. I jab at the “6” button with the intention of returning the gun. I will not kill anyone. Please help me God. I don’t know if it’s a worthy prayer. If God even listens to psychopaths.

The car settles on the ground floor, and I hear the shudder of door open behind me. I should stay on. Ride this beast back up to the sixth floor and return the gun. Without turning I pull my bare foot from the wet suck of carpet and step back, grateful for the hard concrete it hits, my second foot following quickly, any extra precautions disappearing with the close of the doors before me. It’s okay. I can handle this. I won’t use the gun. I will not kill anyone. I have a burst of confidence in my mantra, in myself, a moment of euphoria at the possibility of a successful field trip. It is nighttime. I am outside my apartment and armed, yet I will not hurt anyone. I put my hands in my pocket to stop their shake, the call of dark beckoning, my awareness narrowing as I focus on the task before me. I step to the left and push on the handle, the exterior door popping open, the world of cars and road open before me, the convenience store across the street glowing bright. In a normal neighborhood, the one I grew up in, the street would be quiet, the respectable families asleep or tucked away behind brick walls. But here, in a zip code that boasts the highest crime and lowest reportable income in the city, the streets buzz. I am surrounded, bodies sprinkled around the street, leaning against buildings, cars. I watch a prostitute skitter across the street toward the convenience store, wearing a pair of heels that cheaply mimics some of my own. Her end will come soon enough. It might be a blessing to have it through my hands, quick and final as opposed to a rough ending or slow death through disease. Plus, she is female, an easy target.