Limbs snap under his feet as he wrestles his way deeper into the underbrush. Twilight closes in around him, as water from the drizzling rain runs off his leather jacket. Lights are on in the kitchen and in a few rooms toward the back of the house. He sees her through the window, standing at the sink in the warm light, her hands busy under the running water.
The damp January fog shields him from sight as he leans forward. There is something sensual in the way she dries her hands on her apron—slowly, painstakingly, yet with a certain energy—before grabbing her long hair and putting it up in a bun behind her neck.
He feels his sorrow, his loss.
Her daughter walks into the kitchen. She shrugs out of her short leather jacket and tosses it on the chair by the oval kitchen table. Fifteen, sixteen years old, he guesses. He’d spotted her earlier when she arrived home from school, walking up from the street in her uniform, a bag slung over her shoulder, eyes glued to the ground. Silent, sulky, teenager-ish, he’d thought, as he hid in his car. Yet beautiful in an aloof, introverted way.
Still at the sink, the woman occasionally turns to speak; she laughs at what the teenager says. Through his binoculars, he focuses on her narrow face, studying and committing to memory her feminine features, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. He wants to remember every last detail.
One of the girl’s shirt straps falls down over her shoulder. He sees her prominent collarbone and the attractive curve below her throat. Taking a few steps closer, he pushes aside a few branches. The mother laughs again and turns. Her back is to him, a silhouette in the window.
Though he’s outside, it almost feels as if he’s part of what’s going on in the kitchen. He imagines the odors from the stove and their lighthearted conversation, how they talk about their days in that uniquely intimate way of a mother and daughter.
He steps out of the brush, closer now. The field is open behind him, as the duplexes stand shoulder to shoulder behind the main road and the half-empty parking lot of the pub. The crowd has thinned out and the rain is keeping people indoors. Lights are now on in the surrounding houses, and once in a while someone drives down the narrow street, but everyone seems focused on getting out of the rain.
A car goes by slowly. Quickly, he steps back into the brush, his heart pounding. He curses under his breath when a branch scratches his cheek and warm blood runs down his chin. The car’s headlights narrowly miss exposing him. He closes his eyes and holds his breath a moment. He exhales, heavily. Easy now. Suddenly, he feels the cold; he’s freezing in spite of his warm coat and gloves, the chill penetrates deep inside his body. Everything about him is wet and cold after waiting first in the car, then in the rain. He should have remembered to wear thermal socks.
He ducks instinctively when the woman’s husband walks into the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine. The man says something to his wife and gestures in seeming irritation at the daughter. Then he moves toward her and pushes her shirt strap back onto her shoulder.
Though he can’t hear a word of what they’re saying, it’s easy to read the girl’s reaction. Her face darkens, and she screams at her father, turns on her heel, and storms out. He can almost hear the door slam.
The father opens an upper cabinet door and grabs two glasses. Opens the wine. The woman still stands at the sink, pouring boiling water from the pot she took off the stove. Chills run down his spine when she suddenly looks up and out through the steam, as if she has spotted him there in the twilight, or somehow senses his presence. The steam fogs up the window, the grayish film transforming her into a moving outline. It evaporates quickly, however, and once more he sees her clearly.
In the drizzling rain, he lifts the stock of his gun to his shoulder, concentrates on sighting through the scope, takes a deep breath, and pulls the trigger. The bullet rams into the middle of her forehead, just above her eyes.
He watches the man’s reactions; it’s as if he’s in slow motion. The bottle of wine falls from his hand, and he turns to the shattered kitchen window and his wife, her blood gushing out and splattering him before she collapses onto the floor.
Seconds later, just as he is retreating into the underbrush, a door slams. He catches a glimpse of the teenage daughter standing on the step outside the front door. They both freeze for a second in the gray late-afternoon fog, then she sees the window and screams as she runs back into the house.
He backs his way out through the brush and walks rapidly to his car.