Mick reminds himself that Brianna’s supposed college boyfriend probably wouldn’t be worrying about stuff like that. Nor would he have to worry about letting his parents know he’s made it safely home.
Well, tonight, Mick’s not going to be doing that, either. He quietly slides the dead bolt on the front door and flips the porch light switch. He leaves his down jacket hanging over the newel post.
When Dad wakes up, he’ll know Mick is inside and assume that he just didn’t hear him come in.
“I tried to wake you up when I got home,” Mick will tell him tomorrow. “You didn’t budge.”
It’s not far--fetched. Dad is a sound sleeper and a loud snorer, even though he’s not snoring tonight.
Mick stays close to the wall as he climbs the wide stairs. The treads don’t creak as much when you place your feet all the way to the right. Safely on the second floor at last, he goes past the bathroom to his room without bothering to brush his teeth and wash his face, again aware that his parents wouldn’t approve. Nor would Mom be happy that he’s tossed his wet clothes onto the hardwood floor by his hamper, or that he’s changed into a short--sleeved T--shirt and basketball shorts instead of the flannel pajamas she keeps buying for him.
They have so many rules. You’d think they’d loosen up by the time they got to the third kid, but it seems to Mick that he gets extra attention—-unless, of course, he actually wants attention.
As he reaches past a stack of textbooks to plug his phone into the charger on his desk, he remembers that he was supposed to work on a social studies paper this afternoon. Mom is going to ask him about it first thing tomorrow.
But it can wait, he decides, sitting down with a notebook and pen.
Right now, he has to compose the Secret Santa note he’s going to leave for Brianna on Monday, along with the first gift. Each day, he’ll give her a little bead charm bearing a stick figure that represents something they have in common. On the fifth day, she’ll get the silver Trinkettes bracelet that holds all the beads and has room for lots more, as the lady in the gift shop pointed out.
“See that? You can give your girlfriend a new bead on every special occasion.”
Mick didn’t bother to tell her that the bracelet’s recipient isn’t exactly his girlfriend.
Yet.
When it’s over and the girl lies face up in the mud, her eyes vacantly staring at the black night sky, Casey stands over her, panting.
It’s still pouring out. If Casey hadn’t come prepared, the rain would quickly wash away the blood that oozes everywhere the blade slit through her perfect skin.
I won’t let that happen. I’m always prepared, always one step ahead.
Casey hums softly, fishing around for the wad of dry cleaner’s plastic that always comes in handy at times like this. You can tuck it into your pocket and carry it around all day, and no one will ever know it’s there. You can do the same with a folding barber’s razor, but sometimes, when you sit down or lean against something, the hard bulge of the handle presses into your flesh. Then you remember that it’s there, and you forget that you promised yourself that you won’t use it, even if a perfect opportunity were to present itself as it had this afternoon.
No, wait, technically it was yesterday afternoon that Casey first spotted the redhead in the post office. It’s morning now. Sunday morning.
Sunday, bloody Sunday . . .
Casey waited until midnight to return to West 28th Street. The block had been rendered desolate by the hour and the rain, but the light still shone like a beacon in that fourth--floor apartment. Soon Rapunzel reappeared in the window again, this time wearing a coat. Was she coming or going?
Going, Casey realized when the light went out a moment later. It wouldn’t be necessary to scale the wet and slippery metal fire escape after all.
That was a pity for someone who had always embraced the challenge of climbing to new heights—-literally—-and yet . . .