“Oh, thank God. Mine neither,” I said, through a mouthful of buttery popcorn.
Ben had splurged on the snacks – an extra-large bucket of popcorn, several boxes of candy, and two mountainous blue Icees.
“I know I’m heavier in real life than in my pictures. Sorry about that. I just love eating, you know?” As he said it, I giggled at his stained blue teeth.
“Same here. I’d rather eat what I want than worry about my weight,” I admitted.
An older gentleman in the row behind us let out a spit-riddled ‘shhh’. Ben and I gave each other startled looks, then snorted with laughter.
We made it through an hour of the movie. The acting was great, but the drama was slow … and depressing. When Ben leaned over and suggested we grab coffee to wake ourselves up, I was relieved.
I wanted to talk to him more.
And that was how we got here – sitting knee to knee across from each other, drinking pumpkin spice lattes and laughing.
I liked him. Really liked him, not in that forcing-myself-to-try kind of way that I had with Richard at first. Ben seemed funny and genuine, and the more he talked, the more attractive he became.
Like me, he worked in sales. Only, his focus was on computers, whereas we sold a mixture of things at Bradley and Benson Inc.
We exchanged our funniest customer service stories and vented about pay. And I talked about Delaney – which I hadn’t planned on doing. But when he opened up about his own son and showed me pictures, I had felt comfortable showing mine. He was divorced like me and had only joined Plenty of Fish because his friends and family had pressured him to do so. His son, Joshua, was a couple years younger than Delaney.
“I must admit. This is the best date I’ve ever had,” he said shyly, after pulling out two fives for the tip jar up front. The coffee shop was closing, the patient barista behind the counter breaking down machines and wiping off counters.
“Me too. This was fun,” I said, honestly. It was fun. And I found myself wondering what our second date would be like.
Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for the evening to end. Delaney was still at her father’s.
Would it be so bad to invite Ben over for a nightcap?
We had just stepped outside, the heady smell of coffee fading as I was hit with a blast of warm, fall air.
“I’m not quite ready to say good night, but I guess I have to,” Ben said, tucking his hands in his jeans awkwardly.
“My daughter’s staying with her father tonight. Would you like to come over and have a drink? My house is less than a half hour away …” I could hear the words flowing out of my mouth, but it sounded like someone else was saying them. Someone confident. Someone unlike me. Someone more like the girl in the profile picture, unfiltered and secure …
Ben smiled, a thin blue film still staining his lips. “I’d love that,” he told me.
Chapter 8
Now
The keys to Robin’s apartment were in my palm. I curled my fingers around them, a tingle of fear – or was it anticipation? – rustling through my veins. I’d followed the directions on my phone and just as I had suspected, his address was smack dab in the middle of Madison’s historic business district.
The blue Camaro had been fast, the gas pedal touchy, making for a jumpy ride through town. I’d left the windows up and driven the speed limit all the way there.
What if I get pulled over? What would I say? And what if someone sees me?
The questions were like knives, chiseling endless tunnels through my worried brain …
But I’d made it, only passing two or three cars on the way in, the cover of night my welcome companion.
And now I stood in front of the dead man’s home, his keys, sweaty with perspiration, gripped tight – too tight – and cutting into my palms.
A shudder of fear rolled through me.
The building was pitch black, not a single light shining from above. It was a narrow building, squeezed between a used bookstore and an old-fashioned Italian diner that also looked closed and somewhat abandoned. It was eleven o’clock, an oppressive hush falling over every single storefront on the block.
I’d parked the Camaro at the curb, pleasantly surprised to find only a few cars nearby. Most of these old buildings were used for what they were made for – small businesses. But not for Mr. Regal. My guess was that he was renting the top half of 408 Grant Street.
I pressed my nose to the grimy glass storefront on the bottom level. There was an ornate oak bar to the right, a cluster of six tiny tables to the left. There were no bottles of alcohol behind the bar, and from what I could see, the tables looked sticky with a layer of dust.
Like many businesses in Madison, this one must have flopped too.
I stepped back from the window and looked up. There were two windows on the second story, both thickly shaded with blinds.
The door to the restaurant was locked. I was sure of that, and I didn’t dare try to tug on the door, for fear of setting off some sort of alarm. My guess was that the residential entrance was in the back.
Keeping my head down, tucked low to my chest, I followed the uneven sidewalk around the block where I discovered a skinny alley. My footsteps echoed in the dark as I approached the back of the mystery man’s building, still clutching the keys in a vise-like grip.
The backside was dumpy, a shiny metal dumpster overflowing with garbage beside a thick red door with chipped paint.
My hands shook as I started trying keys in the lock. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, even though I couldn’t see or hear anyone.
If anything, I’ll probably see a racoon out here, rustling around in that putrid garbage.
There were four keys on Robin Regal’s key chain. The key to his Camaro, a tiny silver key that looked like it went to a locker or gun safe, and two shiny gold keys that resembled house keys.
The first gold key fit easily into the lock. When it turned, I should have felt relief, but instead I felt more afraid. What – or who – was inside? And what if someone saw me breaking into this building?
The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside, besides the inky blackness, was how cramped the entryway was. My shin banged against something in the dark as I struggled to find enough room to close the front door behind me.
I popped on my flashlight app with a swipe of my thumb. My eyes traveled up, up, up … There were two steep flights of stairs leading straight up into the darkness. Beside the staircase was a narrow walkway that seemed to lead to the unused bar I’d seen from the front side.
I bent down and rubbed my shin, realizing it had struck the first sturdy wooden step.
There was nowhere to go but up, the tiny stamp of floor in the entryway barely big enough for one person, let alone two.
I gripped the wobbly bannister and started climbing, my trepidation replaced with something else I hadn’t felt in a long time: curiosity.
The top of the first set of steps revealed a similarly tight square of wood, but there were two white doors on either side of the landing. I knocked softly on the left-hand door, surprised when it wobbled a few inches forward. Taking a deep breath of courage, I nudged it the rest of the way open with my foot.
As my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, a room full of blobby white ghosts came into view. Without stepping inside, I stuck one hand in and felt around for a switch. There was a tiny popping sound, and then the room flooded with sick yellow light.