Chapter Three #2
Looking around, Rick noticed his own tracks in the room where he’d walked, and where he’d stood.
He went back to the dining room and looked at the chair and the table, and the spots he’d wiped.
Then he glanced at the sink where he’d cleaned the knife.
That was a problem because a random burglar wouldn’t wash a knife.
Rick walked to the kitchen and stared at the knife.
He picked it up and stared at the blade, then at his own reflection in the metal.
He needed to make it look like the attacker had brought a weapon, not used one from the kitchen.
Or at least make it look like a struggle had happened, and the knife had been grabbed.
Exhaling slowly, Rick closed his eyes. He couldn’t undo the fact that he’d used a kitchen knife, but he could make it less neat and tidy. He knocked the towel into the sink and opened a cabinet door and left it open.
He walked into the hallway and looked at Graham’s phone sitting on the counter where he’d left it.
If the story was about a break-in, a burglar might take a phone.
Rick stared at it, then picked it up with his gloved hand.
He could take it with him and toss it somewhere later, or damage it and leave it where it was.
He put it down again and stomped on the screen until it cracked, then kicked it across the room. Now it looked like it had been damaged in a fight.
Rick stood still and tried to think of the timeline. He’d arrived. They’d eaten and talked and argued, and then he’d left before the break-in happened.
Rick leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He pictured himself leaving with Graham alive and pouring another glass of wine, checking his phone, settling in for the night.
He pictured someone coming through the back door. A shadow and a struggle with Graham fighting and losing.
Rick opened his eyes again and stared at the living room. He rehearsed the words silently, so he knew what to say when the police arrived.
I had dinner with him. We talked. It was tense, but it ended fine. I left around… what time was it?
Rick pulled his phone out and tapped the screen. It lit up, and he stared at it for too long. Lowering the phone, Rick shook his head. He could pick a time and stick to it. He could say he left an hour ago or even two hours ago. Enough time for something else to happen.
Rick put his phone away and walked to the front door and opened it slightly, then shut it again. He should leave now, but there was one more part he had to get right.
Rick needed to look like he’d been here for dinner and not like he’d been in a fight, so he walked into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, seeing his smeared shirt and his messy hair. He glanced down at his hands and noticed the red marks on them.
Stripping his shirt off, Rick shoved it into a trash bag.
He grabbed another shirt from the hallway coat closet and went to put it on, then paused.
He couldn’t wear Graham’s clothes out of here.
That was insane, so he pulled his shirt out of the trash bag and put it back on.
He grabbed his own coat from the rack and put it on over his shirt, trying to hide the worst of it.
He washed his hands again, then scrubbed under his nails and checked his face. He looked better now. Not perfect, but better than before. He went back into the living room and stared at Graham one more time.
Rick dropped his gaze and stared at the floor, then slowly lifted his head like he couldn’t bear what he was seeing. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. He was both scared and excited, and that made him feel sick.
Rick whispered under his breath, testing the tone. “Graham…” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Graham.” That sounded more natural. More like a man walking into something terrible.
Rick stared at the scene and imagined the call. Imagined the operator asking questions. Imagined the police, imagined—
Rick closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He was overcomplicating it. He didn’t need to be the one who found him. What he needed was to be gone before anyone found Graham’s body. Let someone else discover it.
Backing toward the hallway, Rick forced himself not to run. He paused at the entrance and looked down at the floor.
Shoes. He’d walked through the house. There would be marks, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He could only hope the mess he’d created would blur it. That the police would focus on the obvious. That the break-in story would give them someone else to chase.
Rick’s heart thudded hard in his chest as he stepped into his shoes and pulled on his coat properly. He stopped at the door again and looked back into the house.
For one second, a wave of disbelief hit him. He’d come here for dinner and to pitch an album, and now there was a dead body in the living room and a staged mess, and a back door left unlocked.
Rick’s hands curled into fists. He should feel guilt or regret, but instead, beneath the fear, there was something else. A tiny thrill. He swallowed hard, disgusted with himself.
With a shake of his head, Rick opened the front door and stepped out into the cold night. He walked fast, but not too fast, forcing his shoulders to loosen, making his posture normal so it looked like everything was okay.
A neighbor’s porch light flicked on somewhere down the street, and a dog barked, then fell quiet again. Rick ignored it and kept going.
Two houses down, Rick’s car waited. He got in, hands shaking as he started it, then he sat there for a moment, staring ahead and breathing deeply. Rick’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he let out a slow breath and pulled away from the curb.
As he drove, the fear didn’t disappear, but the thrill inside him grew.
He’d done it. He’d actually done it, and he was leaving, and no one had stopped him.
Rick stared at the road, his jaw clenched.
He could get away with it. He could murder someone and get away with it, and he found that he liked it.
Finally, something he’d buried deep inside had been freed.