Oh fuck oh shit oh no oh fuck.
“No, tell Sal I said we wait.”
His voice is closer now. Kitchen, maybe. Right where I left the cookies. Right where he’s about to find evidence that someone broke into his house.
Move.
I rip off the jacket. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely grip the hanger. I shove it back into the closet, wrong spot, crooked, it looks wrong but I don’t have time to fix it.
The tie. I’m still wearing the tie. I grab for it, start to pull it over my head.
His voice again. Still talking. Still on the phone. But moving?
I freeze.
If I try to hang the tie up, I’ll make noise. The hangers will clatter. He’ll hear. If I try to leave, I might run right into him.
I’m trapped.
Move. You have to move.
I shove the tie into my pocket. Leave the jacket half-hanging because I can’t fix it without making noise.
Slip out of the bedroom as quietly as humanly possible.
At the foot of the stairs, the hallway stretches forever.
His voice is still in the kitchen. Words I can’t process because all my brain capacity is devoted to don’t make a sound don’t make a sound don’t make a sound.
The living room. The entryway.
The front door is right there.
I make myself walk.
Not run. Walk. Like a person who belongs here. Like I wasn’t just trying on his clothes in his closet like the world’s worst Goldilocks.
This suit is too big. This tie is just right. This woman is trespassing.
Hand on the doorknob. Turn it. Slip outside. Close it with a soft click.
And then I run. Down the steps. Across the lawn. Down the sidewalk. I’m not even pretending to be casual anymore. I’m a blonde woman in a hat sprinting away from a crime scene, and if anyone’s watching, they’re definitely calling the police.
My car. Where’s my car?
Three houses down. You parked three houses down like a professional stalker.
I throw myself into the driver’s seat. Lock the doors. Shove the key in the ignition with hands that won’t stop shaking.
Go. GO.
I peel away from the curb. Make it two blocks before I have to pull over because I can’t see through the panic.
I sit there. Engine running. Hands death-gripping the steering wheel. Heart trying to exit my body through every available orifice.
What did I just do? What the fuck did I just do?
I almost got caught. He was right there. Talking on the phone in the kitchen where I left cookies with a note.
