Nobody pays attention to a woman in workout clothes, power walking through a neighborhood, headphones on, even if nobody recognizes her, even if she tends to stop on the sidewalk outside a particular house every day. For men, it’s different. Strange men who linger are creepy, potential stalkers, someone to keep an eye on. A woman? A woman can walk a regular route every day and nobody will notice.
From what I can tell, nobody’s noticed me all these weeks, casually passing Lauren’s house, sometimes stopping briefly, but just briefly, looking down at my phone like I just got an important text that stopped me in my tracks. I’m just a harmless female, after all.
Sometimes I drive by her house instead of walking, but a car is different, more noticeable, more likely to arouse curiosity. I only use the car at night, and only for a few minutes.
During the daylight hours, though, like right now at eight-thirty on a Thursday morning, passing her house on foot is the preferred option. And, of course, I can rig my route so that I circle back and pass her house a second time if need be.
Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank, to her credit, has not altered much of her daily routine, even with the changing of the seasons. Around eight every morning, she goes for a three-mile run through Grace Village. She still keeps a regular tennis appointment at ten-thirty in the morning, every weekday, at the Grace Country Club. She still has lunch with her tennis partner and then meets a foursome for golf at one.
It’s enough to exhaust me just thinking about it. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank has to keep that nice, tight figure of hers, doesn’t she?
I wonder what the plan is once the weather
But it’s a moot point now. Lauren will never see another winter in Chicago or anywhere else. She has, let’s see . . . today is Thursday . . . that’s about 106 hours before trick-or-treating ends on Monday night.
Halloween will be perfect. She’ll be home, it will be dark, and Christian can move around in a
I’m surprised more people don’t get murdered on Halloween.
Thank God that Christian—
Oh, why do I bother thinking of him as Christian? Force of habit, I guess. I’ve been so afraid I might let the name “Nick” slip out that I’ve forced myself to think of him only by his alias—Christian Newsome, Christian Newsome, Christian Newsome!
Thank God that Christian came up with the idea for Halloween night for killing Lauren so I didn’t have to do it for him. Men and their egos.
The idea of framing Simon, too—also his idea. Another thing I didn’t want to have to mention. It’s so, so much better when they think it was their idea. Lucky for me, Christian doesn’t lack for confidence.
I wonder if he talked to his buddy Gavin about all this. Yes, I know about him, too. I never liked homework in high school, but I’ve warmed to it recently.
They probably came up with this stuff together. They probably ran through it for hours, considering every possibility. They probably discussed how Christian should “prepare” me for the idea of murder. And for the idea to pin it on Simon—as if that wasn’t the most important part of this for me.
Speaking of . . . If I were interested in inviting myself into Lauren’s house while she wasn’t home, what would be the best way to do it?
