He locks the car, his eyes sweeping over the Mercedes’ lines. A little conspicuous. He should have borrowed a car. Rented one. This neighborhood, same as the cripple’s, isn’t the type to host hundred-thousand-dollar cars. Picking his way through fallen leaves, carrying five pounds of mayhem, he watches the house. Dark windows. Empty drive. No one home. More trudging. Over the curb and through the yard, his head forward, like it is normal, like moving around to the back of the house, over a forgotten hose and past the water meter, is routine. He’s pleased to see a fence around the back of the house, the privacy it affords. Lifts his head and focuses. Tries the back door, skips the windows and tries the doggie door. A big one, built for a large dog. Lifts the flap, but a plastic piece covers the hole. A plastic piece that three hard kicks knocks loose. He sets down the dish and examines the opening. Dirty. Made for an animal that licks its own ass. He pushes aside the irritation and shimmies through on his belly. Disgusting yet easy. The best side effect his small stature has ever afforded him.

Dark inside. Silent, his breathing the only sound. No dog. No roommate. Good. He takes a quick tour, retrieves the casserole dish, then gets in position. Settles in and waits.

It doesn’t take long. Less than an hour later, the sound of an engine. He listens, counts the sound of a single vehicle door open and close. The weight of feet on the steps outside. Unhurried, relaxed strides. The knob twitches, keys jingle, and the door swings open. Marcus waits, watches. The man, big with strong shoulders, steps inside, swinging his foot behind him and kicking the door closed without looking, the man’s head dipped in distraction as he sifts through a handful of mail.

Exposed. Unguarded. Perfect. Marcus steps forward, the syringe ready, jabs and depresses it, in one combined movement, into the man’s neck.

CHAPTER 83

NINETY MINUTES INTO the real world, and I am already chewing my nails to the quick. I sit at a red light, the sixteen-year-old kid beside me breaking every bone in his neck to stare at my car. I turn up the radio and breathe. Try to focus on the purr of the car and the pound of a hard rock beat. I need Mike. Mike would tap into whatever world he belonged to, the one that provides fake IDs and paper trails and illegal firearms without hesitation. As it is, I am relying on Google’s version of a phone book, driving around a town I don’t know like an asshole tourist. I have some items. Are they enough? Or am I creating excuses to avoid heading back home? I should go home. Time is short.

“Hey.”

The word is shouted. Loud. Loud enough to be heard over Nine Inch Nails, which is a feat in itself. I turn my head, pin 16WishesItWasInches with an unfriendly stare. “What?” I don’t speak up, let his baby eyes read my expression and my lips.

“Nice car.”

I nod, smile grimly, and face forward. Will the light to change while considering running the damn thing. He’d get in the car. No problem. It’d be simple. He’d let pussy and horsepower take him anywhere I’d want to go. I could try out my new toys on his hormone-laced body. Afterward, stuff his body in FtypeBaby’s tiny-ass trunk.

The light changes and I floor the gas, leaving twenty feet of rubber on Thompson Ave.

I pull in, the same spot open. I yank the car into park and step out, unlucky enough to encounter Simon, his ripped-jeans self standing one vehicle over. He whistles at the car. “I wondered who that belonged to.”

I say nothing, opening the trunk and shouldering out the cardboard box, stacking the mask on top and looping my fingers through the plastic handles of my Home Depot haul.

“You need help with that?” Simon the Helpful.

“Nope.” I push down on the lid with my chin. Listen to it settle gently into itself, the simple act of the trunk closing beautiful in its own understated way.

He holds the building’s door open, his eyes skipping over my items as he hurries to the elevator and presses the button.

Silence. His eyes dancing. Examining. Probing. I can hear the unasked questions. They are pushing on my skin, crowding around my ears and mouth, wanting to crawl in and rip from my brain answers to satisfy every curiosity of his drug-fueled head, my inclination to drop the box and bags and cover my ears huge. But that would be crazy, because he hasn’t uttered a word.

The doors open and we step, as a unit, onto the elevator car.

“You don’t have to lock me in tonight.”

“Really? But the…”

“The pills will still come on the first. I just don’t want you to lock the door tonight. Pick the normal routine back up tomorrow.” I work through the details for a moment, trying to see if I’ll have need of Simon at any stage in the plan. “Will you be home today—tonight?”