But promises can be broken.
From the driver’s seat in the municipal parking lot off Market Street, Casey has a clear view of Marrana’s restaurant when the last remaining waitress and busboy emerge. The woman locks the door after them and has a quick word with the kid before lighting a cigarette and walking off down the street smoking it.
Rowan Mundy’s youngest son is left alone on the deserted sidewalk to wait for his ride home.
It’s an interesting, and tempting, scenario to be sure. Ever the opportunist, Casey clenches the wheel hard, trying not to imagine what it would be like to squeeze the kid’s skinny neck instead.
But that’s not part of the plan. Not this stage, anyway.
It might be different if Brianna, that cute little redheaded waitress, had been the one to walk away alone in the dark. She’s young, but maybe not too young to be a stand--in. Casey regrets not having been seated in her section, and that her shift ended so soon.
You weren’t the only one.
There was no mistaking the wistfulness on Mick Mundy’s face when Brianna left.
The kid pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, texting and leaning as he waits for his ride home. Wearing an expensive down jacket, one leg bent with an enormous basketball sneaker resting against the brick outer wall of the restaurant, he looks as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. Casey knows that is hardly the case.
Eavesdropping on Mick Mundy’s conversation with Patty the waitress, Casey noted that the kid didn’t mention that the girl he likes barely acknowledges him. He did, however, confess that his lousy grades might preclude him from going to Vermont for an upcoming ski weekend—-never mind that they won’t get him into a decent college. He also mentioned, a few times, that he was really hungry and that his feet hurt. Mick Mundy’s concerns don’t seem to focus very far beyond the immediate future.
Considering that his two older siblings and his father were your classic high school overachievers, that characteristic must be attributed not to age, but to heredity—-maternal heredity, that is.
Mick doesn’t just look like his mother. He acts like her.
Yes, he’s afflicted with the same attention deficit disorder. But that’s no excuse. Even with medication, he goes careening through life with the same reckless attitude, thinking only of his own immediate needs, heedless of consequences his selfish actions might inflict upon other -people’s innocent lives.
Mick and Rowan will never learn the error of their ways unless they’re made to suffer the way they’ve made others suffer.
And they will. Very, very soon.
But not yet. Just as it was very important to wait until November thirtieth to alert Rowan that her transgression has not been forgiven or forgotten, it’s only fitting that the last days of her life be laced with anguish and dread.
As for Mick, Casey has yet to decide whether his punishment includes execution—-or simply witnessing the hideous death that will soon befall his mother. Time will tell. Plenty of sons lose their mothers at a young age. Some are crippled by the loss; others are made stronger.
Headlights swing around a corner, illuminating the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.
Casey is expecting—-hoping—-to see the familiar mini-van, but it’s a dark SUV with Rowan’s husband behind the wheel. He pulls up to the curb, the kid jumps into the passenger seat, and they’re gone.
But that was excellent; it really was. To have spent this night, of all nights, incognito and in the company of Rowan’s son . . .
To have been the source of the kid’s frustration, holding him captive in the restaurant with the unwitting assistance of a fellow patron . . .
Heady with power, Casey starts the engine, looks into the rearview mirror to back up, and is struck by the still--unfamiliar reflection. This look wasn’t initially meant to be a disguise, and yet . . .