I drive the twenty minutes into Wilmington. The clock in the dash says it is 5:34 A.M. I am early, but that’s okay. Cutting it close would be dangerous. I have to make sure nothing goes wrong today. I have to be careful and perfect, about everything. I keep repeating that in my mind until I park my truck behind the squat brick building off Clayton Street. When I get out, I open the back door and reach under the front seat. Even in the dark, I find the roll of duct tape without any problem. I jam that into the pocket of my army jacket. Slipping the hood of my gray sweatshirt up over my head, I look at the pavement as I make my way around the building and onto Pennsylvania Avenue, heading east. It’s a good ten blocks or so, but it’s quiet and a cold wind whips across the river and through the city. It smells like snow, but it is too early in the year.
Most of the city seems to be sleeping. As I pass houses, the occasional light comes on. I picture someone, maybe a young mom preparing a bottle or someone’s grandfather measuring out coffee with a stainless steel scoop. I want to stop and step into their world. Not as myself, though. I want to become one of them. I want to step into their reality, own their life. Wake up at home and pad down the stairs while my family sleeps peacefully above my head. They wouldn’t have to be with me. I wouldn’t have to see them. But I’d know they were there.
For a second, it’s almost possible. I think that if I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as possible, I could swallow these strangers whole, take over their lives like nothing ever happened. But the feeling is gone as quickly as it comes. So I just lower my head to the wind and walk.
The sound of my work boots against the sidewalk echoes until a series of cars pass, early risers heading to their office jobs. I follow them until, still blocks away, I see the yellow glow from the windows at the back of the YMCA. I am close. And it will happen this morning.
I know she’s inside. I have taken this exact walk over half a dozen times now. I can picture her car in the same spot in the lot across the street. Glancing at my watch, I know, for sure, that I have seventeen minutes until she comes out. She is a creature of habit. Someone should have warned her against that.
LAUREN BRANCH WALKS across the street, right on time. I am watching from the darker corner of the lot, under a small overhang by the back wall. I recognize her gait immediately, long before I can see her face. Her head rises with each step, sending the tight dark ponytail bouncing up and down. Her chin is lifted, proud, and her eyes are open. She walks like a woman who has conquered some elusive greatness, the kind of thing that only she knows. Yet that walk tells the world that it should hang on, because soon, it will all be clear, and everyone will nod and say they should have seen her coming.
She swings a lanyard in her right hand. It whips in a tighter and tighter circle, the nylon strap wrapping around her finger until her keys slap against her hand. Then she reverses the direction, unraveling the lanyard until it reaches its apex and begins a never-ending cycle back to her finger. Someone should have told her not to do that, either.
I move when she is about five spaces from her Jetta. As I get closer and closer, I hear a soft tune. With another step, I can make out the words. She is singing softly, some new Taylor Swift song, one I heard while sitting in my ex-girlfriend’s car right before we broke up. She is off-key and her voice rolls into a fading croak.
Something about this hurts. I see this woman, Lauren Branch, as if time rolls suddenly backwards. Maybe she is walking to her car after a long day of high school. She will go home, do her homework, Snapchat with her friends. Her mom will hassle her about dinner or cleaning a bedroom. I picture her having a family, being a part of something loving and good. Maybe she could live in one of those houses I passed. Maybe we could, together.
The idea tears at me, pushing me back. I reach up and pull my hair, then press in on my eyes. Nothing helps. But it’s too late for second thoughts. Everything counts on me doing this right.
I feel like my thoughts should be loud enough for her to hear me. I feel like she will spin around, look me in the eyes, and everything will be ruined. Instead, she continues to bounce along, singing and twirling that damn cord. Over and over. With no clue at all. I hate her for that.
I am maybe four paces away when she stops at the back of her car. As she has every morning, she lets her keys land in her hand and she pops the trunk. It swings open and, so predictably, her keys drop from her palm and fall through the air until they stop with a jerk at the end of the lanyard that dangles from the tip of a single finger.
Two paces away and she swings her gym bag into the trunk. Her voice rises, reaching the chorus of the song, and for the first time I notice she is still wearing earbuds. No wonder she never turned. No wonder she had no idea I stood directly behind her, lifting my left hand, palm out to the arch of her back.
I have practiced this over and over again. I know it has to be quick, like a snap. My grasp has to be clean and tight. I need to push her away from me instead of pulling her toward me. Over and over again I have done it, so much that I think I could do it in my sleep. There is no turning back now. I look at my watch. It is now 6:27 A.M. I commit.
The nylon feels warm as it laces between my middle and index fingers. Like snapping a towel, I send a jerk forward. I feel the lanyard slip from her finger and the strap goes limp against my thumb.
Her head turns. I see her eyes; they widen. As predicted, she flinches away from me, shifting her weight toward the car. Without hesitating, my right hand moves with all my considerable weight behind it. My palm presses her green athletic shirt into the small of her back near her hip. I grunt and the force of my push combined with her own inertia buckles her legs. She teeters, off-balance. That’s when my other arm curls up, cupping her left leg. I lift it, her foot rising from the asphalt, and I forcefully bend her at the waist. She tries to stop me, to flex the muscles of her back, but it is too late. And I am too strong. She folds in on herself and I push downward.
Lauren’s weight does the rest for me. She flips over the ridge of the trunk. It is surprisingly large. She fits in without any problem at all, even alongside her gym bag. I stare down at her and our eyes meet. Somehow her glasses have stayed on. One earbud has come loose, though, and wraps loosely around her neck. At the same time, I pull the roll of tape out of my jacket pocket.
“What the hell, Liam! I—”
That’s all she gets out before I slap a strip across her lips. I see the panic then. The fear she must feel. But it means nothing. I slam the trunk closed just as her foot shoots outward. The kick vibrates up the bone of my forearm. I hear a muffled scream of pain just as I force the trunk down until the latch clicks shut.
When I throw open the driver’s-side door and slip in, I hear more thumps. I glance at my watch again as my other hand shuts the door: 6:29 A.M. Two minutes.
I drive out of the parking lot. No one is close enough to hear Lauren. No one gives me a second look. I’m gone before she even knows what has happened.