Chapter 47
Henry waits until the middle of the night. The single streetlamp is glowing dimly, and crickets hum. Nighttime in the summer is not actually quiet at all.
He doesn’t close the back door completely. It sticks a little, and he doesn’t want to pull it too firmly, to have it rattle the house. At least, not more than once.
It’s warm, but he’s wearing the same gloves he wore into the unhappy couple’s house, black pants, and a black sweatshirt.
The hood is up, drawstring pulled tight, so that only the features of his face are exposed.
It’s such a short distance from his back door to her front one.
He doesn’t even need to cross a driveway.
He moves through the grass, and it’s brittle and dry, which is good, he thinks.
No dew to track inside. No footprints left behind.
Soon, his hand is on the knob of the door, and he’s turning so gently, and there’s not resistance like one might expect from a doorknob in the middle of the night—like there should be—but give.
Is being right the best feeling in the world?
Henry suspects that the feel of the wife will be better. The silk of her hair between the pads of his fingers. The softness of her cheek below the ridge of her bone, her breasts above the scrape of her ribs.
Stay focused. Push the door open. Slowly, slowly. Inhale, then freeze, then listen.
Henry hears nothing. No scream of an alarm, no countdown. There’s no panel on the wall on which to enter a code. He pushes the door closed behind him.
Quickly, quickly. He knows exactly what he needs.
No distractions. Twenty-two steps, and he’s past two doors in the hall, both cracked, and into the kitchen, in front of the counter.
Silver light spills in through the back sliding glass door.
It’s a full moon tonight. He locates the knife block easily, and he removes the largest one.
He holds it down, against his side. Silver and sleek, and the pearly light from the moon glints against it.
His sneakers squeak once, but by then he’s already in the foyer, then he’s out the front door and he’s closing it behind him.
He’s down the porch steps, across the lawn.
Hood obscuring his peripheral vision, but it doesn’t matter because he is fast, so fast, and then he’s around the side of his house and back into the basement.
This time, he has to close the door firmly behind him, but he does it so gingerly, so carefully, that the house doesn’t rattle. He flips the dead bolt.
His heart is in his chest, and the roar of blood in his ears is the loudest thing he’s ever heard, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s the only one who can hear it.
He wraps the knife in a hand towel, then slips it beneath his mattress.
He lies down, and he breathes until the roar dissipates, until his heartbeat slows, and he’s never felt more alive.