Identity

People, especially women, were so damn stupid.

He glanced around a house that rated dump on his scale. Still, the good bones, the location made it worthwhile.

In and out, he reminded himself, and moved straight to her home office. He’d uninstall the software he’d installed during his “bathroom break” the previous Monday night.

No bread crumbs left behind there.

Then he’d finish a very profitable few weeks in a matter of hours. Top it all off his way.

She’d see him before she expected to.

He imagined killing her in the parking lot of the bar, beside her car. But if she wasn’t—as she usually was—the last one out, he’d be in the car, tucked in the back.

Then, surprise! And then the finale. Dump her body, drive the car to an associate in Baltimore. Make an exchange for the I’m-woke Prius, and be on his merry, merry way.

At least he hadn’t had to fuck her first. Then again, he was a man who knew his marks, and had known straight off Morgan Albright wouldn’t be an easy lay. Saved time, effort, and bullshit.

But boy, she’d been easy in every other way.

With hands covered in surgical gloves, he opened her laptop.

He booted it up, and honestly wondered why the woman didn’t—or hadn’t—spent any of her hard-earned money on newer equipment.

He’d already started the uninstall when he heard the pad of footsteps behind him.

He turned, innocent smile in place, as Nina—definitely not looking her best—stepped up to the doorway.

“Luke?” Voice hoarse, she coughed on the name. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey! I talked Morgan into letting me add some software to her laptop. I came in the back. Didn’t want to wake you.” No question she was sick, he decided, so time to improvise.

And put on his best sympathetic face.

“She said you weren’t feeling well, probably sleeping. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Spring cold. Lousy. My boss sent me home, drove me home. I was just … How did Morgan know I was home sick? Did Angie call her?”

Too complicated, he decided. And she must’ve seen something in his eyes, because he saw something in hers. It said: Run.

Before she could, he grabbed the laptop, swung it hard. It cracked against the side of her head, and the other side of her head cracked against the doorframe.

She barely made a sound.

As she went down, he swung the laptop again—piece of shit anyway—and hit her again.

She’d fucked it up for him, and there’d be no capping it off his way with Morgan now.

So substitution.

“Wrong place,” he said as he knelt down, dragged her onto her back so he could put his hands around her throat. “Wrong time for a sick day, bitch. Wrong girl, but you’ll have to do.”

It gave him a rush, always gave him a rush, to squeeze death out of life.

Though her eyes wheeled, her heels drummed, she never came fully around.

He left her and the broken laptop on the floor.

Adjusting, he hunted through the kitchen, found a trash bag. He loaded it with Nina’s laptop, her phone, some jewelry he didn’t judge as worth the pawning, found a hundred and fifty-eight dollars between her purse and her underwear drawer.

He went through Morgan’s room. She actually owned a couple decent pieces of jewelry. Diamond studs—small, but good color and cut—a gold locket—looked old, probably a family piece. He tossed in some of the crap jewelry with it.

He thought waste not, want not as he loaded up.

Marks always squirreled some cash in the house. He found Morgan’s—five twenties—rolled in a pair of athletic socks.

He grabbed her keys from the bowl by the front door, then went out the way he’d come in.

He used his elbow to break one of the panes of glass on the back door.

Daylight B and E gone bad, gone tragic—that’s how it would look.

Too bad, so sad.

He unlocked the car with the fob, tossed the goodie bag in the back.

He backed out of the drive and drove in the opposite direction of the city center. Humming along with Billie Eilish’s cover of “Yesterday,” he drove toward Baltimore.



* * *



A shower hit just as Morgan started to leave work. She checked the radar on her phone. A quick one, heading west.

She opted to wait it out and texted Nina to say so and ask if she wanted in on some Chinese takeout.

The lack of response made her frown.

“Lingering cold, maybe,” she murmured as she watched the rain. “Post-work nap.” She ordered some extra noodles and sweet and sour shrimp just in case.

Fifteen minutes later, she headed out in the damp air under sunny skies. She stopped for the takeout, secured it and her purse in the basket.

She expected a fairly quiet night at the Round, as Wednesday tended to be slower. They hadn’t opened the outdoor seating area yet, but soon would.

When she got her place, she wanted a full patio area with a pergola, and she’d have heaters so customers could use it except in the coldest or rainiest of weather.

More seating, more sales, more profit.

When she didn’t see her car in the driveway, her heart jumped. Then she realized Nina must have needed to go somewhere. Maybe more NyQuil.

Still, she always asked.

She went inside, nodded when she saw the empty key bowl. She hung up her jacket, stowed her purse, then detoured to Nina’s room.

Definitely came home and went out again, she decided. The tissue box was back on the bed.

More tea and honey, she thought, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and stow the takeout.

She froze, simply froze when she saw the broken pane in the door, the shards of glass on the floor.

She backed up, breath already catching as she fumbled out the phone in her pocket. Her brain wouldn’t function beyond nine-one-one.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“A break-in, a break-in. The kitchen door.”

She looked toward the bedrooms, then toward her office.

And saw the hand, the forearm, the blood in the hallway.

“Oh God! Oh God. It’s Nina!” She sprinted to the office, dropped to the floor. “Hurry, please hurry—229 Newberry Street. She’s hurt. There’s blood. She’s not moving.”

“Help’s on the way. Can you give me your name?”

“Morgan. Nina’s hurt, there’s blood. I think—I think she’s dead. No. No. No. What can I do? What should I do?”

“Morgan, is there an intruder in your house?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. She’s not breathing. I can’t find a pulse. Help me.”

“Help’s coming. Can you hear the sirens? You should go outside now, Morgan, wait for the ambulance, the police.”

“I’m not leaving her here. Should I do CPR? I—I took a class. She’s cold. God, she’s so cold. I should get a blanket.”

“Nina’s cold?”

“I’ll get a blanket.”

“Morgan, the ambulance is pulling up now. Do you hear the sirens? Go let them in, Morgan. Go open the door.”

She veered off from her race to grab the throw off the sofa and yanked open the front door.

“Hurry, please. She’s cold, and she’s bleeding. She won’t wake up.”