CHAPTER FORTY ONE
With a rehearsed shudder of vulnerability, Maxwell knocked on the front door. It might have been eleven o’clock at night, but his research had taught him that the woman on the other side of the door was something of a night owl.
He knew the woman reasonably well. He’d listened to her spiels once a week for the past month, and every time she spoke, all he could think about was how she’d react when faced with the phobia that apparently crippled her.
Unlike the others, this woman was a fighter, not content with giving up and passing out at the first sign of terror.
Just like the detective, he wanted someone who would hang on until the end.
To his right, he saw drapes twitching. Then he heard the shuffling of feet against a hardwood floor.
Maxwell straightened his posture only to slump it again, crafting the image of a man burdened by grief, trauma – anything believable.
He loosened up his arms and began shivering as if he were on the edge of a breakdown.
In his mind, Maxwell prepared his fabricated confession of needing someone, anyone, to talk to.
Tonight, he was playing the part of a lost soul teetering on the brink.
The door creaked open to reveal a young woman on the threshold. She was clad in grey sweatpants, a loose jumper, and a pair of rimless glasses that he'd never seen her without. Her face, bare of makeup, carried the natural beauty of surprise.
‘Hi?’ she said. Her eyes scanned Maxwell, taking in the unexpected visitor on her doorstep at such an ungodly hour.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Maxwell said. ‘I just needed… someone to talk to.’
He avoided direct contact, as if the mere act of looking at her could shatter his veneer. His body language screamed crisis – shoulders hunched, hands jittery, weight shifting from one side of his body to the other.
‘What’s wrong?’ the woman asked. She peered out of the door and glanced up and down the street.
‘Panic attack. I can feel it coming on. There’s no one at home. I just didn’t know where else to go.’
The woman chewed on her lower lip. Maxwell watched her, noting the shift, the slight opening, the vulnerability of a good Samaritan standing before him.
'Do you want to come in? You can't stay too long, but I can call a paramedic if you want.'
‘Could you? I think I’ll be okay if I just... sit down.’
The woman pulled the door open and gestured for Maxwell to enter. He stepped over the perimeter, leaned against the hallway wall, and assumed the position of a man on the edge. He clutched his stomach, filled his air with lungs and slowly exhaled, ensuring there were no gaps in his performance.
She placed a hand on his back and asked, ‘What’s wrong, exactly? Is it a panic attack or an anxiety attack? Are you nauseous? Palpitations? Hot or cold?’
Maxwell had to refrain from smirking at the questions. She was attempting to triage him. ‘It's... it's like I'm drowning. You know? You’ve had these before, right?’
‘All the time.’
‘Everything just closed in on me. I can't breathe, can't think. I've never felt anything like it before.’
It was a balancing act, Maxwell told himself. Keep the symptoms vague while he assessed the place for dangers. Exit points, weapons, potential saviors. ‘Sorry, I feel so bad for bothering you. Are you alone?’
‘Just me. My boyfriend isn’t here tonight. Let me get you a glass of water.’
Maxwell concluded that now was the opportune moment to strike.
The longer he spent here, the more chance he had of leaving DNA behind.
Then, like a magician stealing the hidden prop, Maxwell reached into his jacket and clasped the handle of his Sig Sauer 9mm semi-automatic.
He spun on his heels to cut the subject off before she’d even turned his back on him.
The power exchange was instant. The woman’s expressions sped through the entire spectrum of emotions in record time. He took a step closer, then pushed the gun barrel into her forehead.
‘Tony?’ she cried with a step back, but he kept up with her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Ah, Tony,’ he said with a laugh. Another stage name. ‘Sorry, but there’s no emergency.’
The subject raised her hands in the universal gesture of surrender. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not yet falling, as she stared down the slab of metal that could potentially end her life.
‘You’re coming with me,’ he said.