Chapter 37
He crawls to the edge of the Chrysler he’s been hiding behind and waits for the sound of her car door creaking open, Charlie stepping out.
When she does, he coughs once, loudly. He watches through the car window beside him as she pauses, peers around, looks for the man who’s made the sound.
When she doesn’t see anyone—a friendly neighbor’s face, or at least someone she knows—she slams the car door and starts walking quickly toward the building.
He didn’t plan to do things this way but decides it’s fun—to frighten her by doing so little, while staying out of sight.
He coughs again, louder this time, and now she’s running for the door.
He wants to yell Bitch so badly, but he won’t risk her recognizing his voice.
He doesn’t need to yell anything, though—the simple sounds he made have done their job.
When Charlie reaches the entrance, she turns, looking wildly behind her, before walking through and slamming the door shut.
The sight of her terrified, beautiful face does something to him.
It sings to him. He’s wanted her to look that way in class so many times: after she’s insulted him, or asked him a probing, inappropriate question about Judith, or laughed in his face.
He drinks in the sight like nectar and lets the image imprint in his mind.
Long after she’s gone, after she’s taken the elevator or stairs to her snug apartment and locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard, after she’s called a friend and cried a little over a glass of wine that she holds in a trembling hand, he savors the image he’s made—of Charlie, terrorized.