I reached out a hand. Her milky skin stood out in the darkness. Her skin pressed against mine and I helped her into the room. Our shoulders touched as we took in our surroundings.
A twin bed, rumpled pillow shoved between the wall and mattress. Stuffed dresser. Fancy speakers. Desk. Bookshelves, the bottom rows of which were stacked with Maxim magazines. I thumbed through some of the papers on the desk, searching for a name. Lena found it first.
“Wallet,” she called softly from her spot near the dresser. I came to stand next to her. She slid out a license. My instinctive response was a grimace when I saw the picture of Alex. The one that I called Lucky Strike.
Sure enough a carton of cigarettes was stashed on his nightstand.
Like a surgical assistant, she handed me the envelope with the flash drive and Alex’s name on it. I balanced the featherweight of it between my hands. It didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough.
Send a message. Get him to the location. And then I could make good on everything. One more night.
The smell of his cigarette breath hot on my neck as he held me in place lingered in my memory. He enjoyed my pain and I’ll enjoy his. Fair was fair. I shook the can of spray paint and, above his bed, I sprayed angry orange letters: Peekaboo. I see you. The envelope dropped on his pillow, complete with the flash drive inside and the scratchy message I’d scrawled that told him to meet me at midnight sharp tomorrow. Or else.
I turned to Lena, who was staring at the violent letters scrawled and dripping down the wall. Her mouth hung open. “I can’t … believe … you did that,” she said just before her mouth stretched into a bemused grin. “Crazy. Totally off the wall, crazy.”
She was right, of course. I felt beautifully crazy. Like I was balancing on a ledge and any second I might tip over into complete and utter insanity. “Your turn.” I went for the door.
“We’re going out there?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Scared?”
She rolled her eyes and snatched the spray can from my hand. “Give me that.”
I held out my palm and motioned for her to wait. I cracked the door and listened. A great guffaw of laughter sprang out from the other end of the house. Lena jerked to attention beside me. I waited another beat. Then two before gesturing for her to follow. Together, we crept through the narrow hallway, past the bathroom, and all the way to the next bedroom door. Again, I listened from the other side, and again, when I heard nothing, I entered and turned the lock, shutting both Lena and me inside.
I wondered how they’d feel tonight when they came in and found that someone had been inside their home. Would they feel violated? Would they think they had a right to feel that way?
Probably.
This room was tidy. A clean plaid comforter covered a double bed at the center. A series of Tarantino posters were pinned neatly to one wall—Pulp Fiction, Django, Kill Bill.
I picked up a framed picture and studied the faces in the photograph of a family on a girl’s graduation day. A sister perhaps? I set it down, unable to tell whether one of the boys in the picture was Circus Master. The meanest of them all. I opened a file cabinet and rifled through papers until I found a term paper. “The Effect of the Kemp-Kasten Amendment in Modern-Day Mongolia” by Tate Guffrey. My insides gurgled like molten lava.
I showed the name on the paper to Lena. “You’re up.”
She stared at the can of paint, took a step forward, and then looked back at me. I waited, not sure what she’d do. But she turned back and she aimed and fired. Instead of at the wall, Lena pointed the can at the made bed and scrawled a message identical to the one I’d left for Alex. She spun, one hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes all lit up. “I did it,” she half squealed before catching herself and dropping the volume of her voice. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that.”
“Welcome to the dark side,” I said.
But we had no time to celebrate because from somewhere on the other side of the door came a voice.
“Jesus Christ.” Lena’s sparkling eyes went cartoon-round.
I pressed a finger to my lips and listened. The voice was talking. I couldn’t make out words. I couldn’t tell if it was getting closer or farther or neither. Then a toilet flushed. My posture softened. A few short moments passed with the sound of running water.
“Marcy!” Lena’s voice was strained.
Footsteps. A laugh. Words. I glanced around the room. Trapped. The doorknob jiggled.
“Hey, the door’s stuck,” said the voice. Tate. The poker game must be over. It jiggled again. I watched it like a grenade without the pin. “I think it’s locked.” He pushed against it and I watched as the thin wood bowed. “What the hell? Who locked this?”
“We’ve got to go.” I dropped the envelope with the flash drive onto his pillow. Lena stood paralyzed, staring at the door. “Now,” I said.