From the street, he could see that most of his parents’ two-story house was lit up. A glance at the driveway and the only car parked there told him Norma was home alone.
That Byron wasn’t there didn’t surprise him; he had counted on it. Wednesday was poker night at Stuart Blake’s house, and Byron had been a casual gambler for as long as Ethan could remember.
He crept toward the side of the house, and then along the brick wall to a window. So far, no one had spotted him. With a row of tall hedges blocking the neighbor’s view, he was confident nobody would—at least not until he was back on the street.
But he had to act fast. The drive had taken longer than expected, and Byron could get home at any time.
He peered through one of the many windows at an empty kitchen. Then he tried to push the frame up in hopes of finding it open. He was certain all the doors would be locked—Norma was careful about checking the deadbolts—but he knew from experience there was almost always an open window somewhere.
The kitchen window wouldn’t budge. He moved to the next and tried it. Then he tried another. Each time he peeked inside first to make sure she wasn’t within sight. For his plan to work, he needed to take her by surprise.
It wouldn’t do to have her scream.
Finally, at the fourth window—one of several that would open onto the sitting room—he found his way in. The frame slid open easily, and with the knife clamped between his teeth, Ethan awkwardly dragged himself inside.
The sitting room was one of the few rooms without its lights on. But thanks to the moon’s pale glow, he was easily, silently able to maneuver his way around the two chairs and the piano to the closed sliding doors.
A thin light shined through the cracks underneath them, between them—promising, as many of the lighted rooms might, that Norma was on the other side. Maybe only feet away.
He turned the knife in his hand to get a tighter grip and wrapped his fingers around one of the door’s handles. He took several deep breaths. He rehearsed the murder in his mind: his hand over her mouth, blood pouring from underneath her chin.
He cracked the door just enough to peek through. The living room was empty. He tiptoed to the kitchen and pressed himself to the wall beside the doorway that led to it.
He listened, heard nothing. After a minute or so, he peeked around the corner.
Norma wasn’t there, either. After he’d cautiously looped his way around the first floor, he started up the stairs.
This is taking too long. Too damn long.
A stair squeaked, and he froze. Waited. More deep breaths. Then, once he was satisfied she hadn’t heard the noise, he finished climbing the stairs.
There were fewer rooms on the second floor, making it easier to search. He also knew where to begin—his parents’ bedroom.
He crept down the hall to their door—half-closed, but wide enough to get his head through—and peered inside. Norma was sitting on the bed with her back to him, stitching a sweater.
This would be easier than he had hoped. Three quick steps and he’d be directly behind her. He’d be able to slit her throat before she could scream.
Then he heard a door open from downstairs. It slammed shut. Pop was home.
Shit!
He jumped away from the door just as Norma’s head whipped around. “Honey?”
“Just me,” Byron hollered back.
“How was the game?”
“Same as always.”
Ethan looked around, seeking a place to hide.
The closet.
It was just on the other side of the bedroom door. If he could get there unseen . . . But was Norma looking? Was she up and walking toward the hall? How could he know? Then, he heard the stairs creak, and he knew he had to act.
He darted across the hall without looking into the bedroom and then slipped into the closet, tucking himself between the coats and watching through the crack in the door.
Norma didn’t scream or call his name. She hadn’t seen him.
He sighed with relief and then clenched the fist that held the knife tight enough to turn his fingers white. He was furious. His opportunity had been spoiled. He’d come too late, moved too slowly. Then he saw something that would forever change his plan.
Norma appeared from the bedroom and met Byron in the hall. She took his hands, kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.”
“Me, too.”
Ethan’s eye twitched with confusion. This was not the same woman who had tortured him throughout his childhood. The Norma he knew was neither tender nor kind. Never would she have ignored her stitching (which she never would have been doing to begin with) to kiss her husband. She was also thinner now than he could remember, and, with her hair pinned carefully back, looked almost elegant in her long, silk robe.
Why had she changed?
She’s still working at the frame shop. It’s still making her happy.
Could that have been all she needed? A job? A sense of purpose? And could she really be getting that sense of purpose from working at a frame shop?
His parents kissed on the lips, and Byron smiled. They made small talk in the hallway about the poker game, and, even through his anger, Ethan could hear the love in Norma’s voice. Then she turned and guided Byron into the bedroom.
Ethan stayed in the closet for several hours. He watched Byron come and go—to turn off the lights, to get a glass of water.
Once the house had fallen silent, he slipped out of the closet and tiptoed into his parents’ bedroom. They were asleep with Norma spooned up against Byron, like young lovers.
He could kill her right then, but he’d probably have to
