Chapter 75 Him
Him
Then
It’s time to finish this. We’ve had a good run, you and me, but I’m eager to bring our little dance to its long-anticipated climax.
And I know you feel the same way, even if you don’t realize it.
At least, not on a conscious level. Because our destinies have always been entwined.
There is an inevitability that weaves through the universe, bringing souls together and pulling them apart, and you and I are just a small part of that celestial game.
When I first encountered you in that coffee shop, I wasn’t sure that we would be right together, that you were the one.
But now, standing in the lobby of your building at the threshold of your apartment, I’ve never been more certain.
I feel at home here. Content. I step inside and quietly close the door, then slip the lock-picking tool back into my pocket.
Of course, you aren’t home. You’re out with one of those bratty friends of yours, and she always keeps you out late.
It’s only eleven thirty, and I doubt that you’ll be home much before midnight.
Which is fine, because I want to look around a little.
Make sure that nothing has changed since I was here last week.
That’s one of my rules, you see. You might have gotten yourself a knife or have a gun tucked away in some drawer that I won’t know about until it’s too late.
You could have a baseball bat leaning behind the door.
You might even have had an alarm system installed.
But you don’t have an alarm, not that it would have stopped me.
Now I just need to check that you don’t have any weapons stashed about the place, either.
I walk through the foyer and into the dark living room. No lights are on. I like that. You don’t waste electricity. I bet you’re a religious recycler, and you take short showers to save water, too.
I take a flashlight from my pocket with a gloved hand and shine it around. The place is neat, and the smell of pine hangs in the air. It’s almost as if you cleaned just for me, but I suspect that you are always this tidy, and good for you.
My flashlight beam sweeps across the room, illuminating a sofa and coffee table and playing across the fireplace and mantel.
And that’s when I see the photograph in a frame with fine silver filigree, and I can’t help myself.
I want to look at it again. I cross to the fireplace and pick it up, stare at your smiling face looking back at me from within the frame.
You’re dressed in a graduation gown and cap, posing next to another young woman dressed the same. A friend perhaps?
I place the picture back on the mantel—I’m getting distracted—then head for the bedroom.
I check the drawers in the nightstand, rummage through the clothes in your dresser, and even look under your pillows, because you wouldn’t believe the places people hide their guns, and I really dislike surprises.
But I don’t find anything and that’s good.
Now nothing will get in the way of our fun.
The bedroom has an en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet with sliding louvered doors.
I give the bathroom a cursory inspection, then go to the closet, open the doors, and turn the light on.
Clothes hang on both sides of the small room.
On the far wall is a tall shoe rack. The closet is well organized and tidy.
A laundry basket sits on the floor, half full of dirty clothes.
The way it’s aligned parallel to the shoe rack, forming a perfect ninety-degree angle to the wall, strikes me as a little compulsive.
And trust me, I know all about compulsions.
Still, it explains the meticulous precision with which you have arranged everything else in the closet.
It’s so well organized, in fact, that I hesitate to spoil the perfect symmetry by stepping inside.
But I do, because there aren’t many other places in this apartment within which to conceal myself, and it provides a perfect view of your bedroom through the door slats.
When you come home, I’m sure you will go straight there because it’s late.
And even if it isn’t, well, we have all night to enjoy each other’s company.
I turn off the closet light and extinguish my flashlight, too.
The darkness folds around me.
I reach down and touch the knife at my hip, my fingers grazing the cold, sharp steel.
Just a little longer, I tell it. Be patient.
But waiting is hard. The anticipation is almost unbearable, because I’ve thought about this moment so many times over the last few months—the final thrilling chapter of our love story.
I don’t have to wait long.
Because soon I hear the turn of a key, the gentle creak of a door opening and closing.
There are footsteps.
A light snaps on, throwing a rectangle of soft illumination through the bedroom door and across the floor.
More footsteps . . . getting closer.
Closer.
You are in the bedroom now.
I hold my breath, grip the closet door, wait for you to come into view.
And in that brief moment between anticipation and execution, I have never been so happy.