Every Little Dream(22)

Following the blueprints that I memorized last night, I steal up the stairs and find preppy boy’s room at the end of the hall on the right. As promised, the house seems empty.

His name is Henry Kingston IV. Seems like a pretentious asshole, if you ask me. His bedroom is clean, like a college boy doesn’t even live here on weekends. Frames, filled with a high school diploma and fancy awards line the walls. A blown up poster size photo of him is above the bed. Must be Henry. There’s a cold gleam in his eye and cockiness in his smug half-smile. His blond hair is cut short and longer hair in the front swiped off to the side. The room is a fucking tribute to this guy. I can’t help but wonder why a guy like that is terrorizing the town in his Camaro. He must have better things to do with his time, unless he is into something illegal.

I run a gloved finger across the nightstand table. A radio/alarm clock, a pad of paper with nothing written on it and a fountain pen lies on top. I slide open the drawer to find an address book with a slip of paper sticking out the top. I open the book and memorize the address: 56 Ocean View Drive. Could be nothing. Just a girlfriend’s house. Or where the next party will be.

I’ll check it out another time.

The closet door opens easily with a nudge of my sneaker. I run my hand through the collared shirts and suits. I check the pockets. Nothing. I delve further into the closet but find nothing. His room is pretty clean.

I pull out of the closet with a realization. This life, Henry’s life, could’ve been mine. The house. The money. The clothes. If I’d stayed at home and allowed my father to groom me into a carbon copy of himself, this would be my life. Does Henry wish he could break out and fly? Does he feel trapped? I feel sympathy for this guy.

I take pictures of the rest of the room. I look in every possible spot, but there are no loose floorboards or secret wall safes that hold drugs. The movies make this kind of thing look easy.

The shrill ring of the phone breaks into my thoughts. Crap. I’ve stayed way too long. But the guy left his phone here? I can’t miss this opportunity.

The front door slams downstairs. Footsteps sound on the stairs.

While someone leaves voice mail I check the view from this upstairs window. It’s quite a drop but I think I can make it. A sweat breaks out. Quickly, unable to resist the temptation and the desire to get the evidence and move onto something a little less criminal, I try to play back the messages but can’t get past his password.

The sound of footsteps moves up the stairs. I slide open the window but someone stops outside the door. Earning a rug burn, I drop and shimmy under the bed.

He enters and his weight on the bed pushes it closer to my face. With a few annoying huffs, he makes phone calls and leaves messages but they’re basic, nothing criminal. He could be like any other rich guy.

I hold my breath, scared to breathe, scared to get caught and fail this early in the game. I try and listen through the haze of fear creeping in, but his words jumble together. Did I shut the closet door? Did I shut the drawer?

“Yeah, same day and time.” He stops talking. “Fuck.”

My heart clenches.

“Someone’s been through my stuff. My sister’s such a bitch…No, don’t worry. She’s clueless…Yes, I’ll take care of it.” He swears and leaves the room.

My breath leaves in a whoosh. When did I turn into such a wuss? I wait a few more minutes, then crawl out. I don’t take the time to wipe off the dust but climb out the window and drop.

I land hard and try to roll but my ankle twists. Shit. Not like I’ve been trained in how to drop from second floor windows. Without caring about who sees me, I stumble across the lawn. I’m almost to the end, when I hear the dogs. Their barks are loud and ferocious. Somehow I don’t think they’ll warm up to me.

I’d rather anyone not know I was there, so I turn on the speed, despite the pain shooting through my ankle. The iron fence is in sight, the slight gap for me to slide through. The barking increases and I turn at the last second. Aim and shoot. The dog whines and then collapses. Shit. The thing really works. I escape.





That evening I bring Katie to a carnival a couple towns over. That’s clean, honest fun, definitely something I need right now, after this afternoon. She might’ve been right when she said I needed her as much as she needed me. When we’re apart, I can’t wait to see her, and forget about Dad and the suffocating feeling pressing on my chest every time I carry out his orders. With Katie, I escape.

The carnies call out from the games rigged for everyone to lose: throwing darts at balloons, the basketball shoot, and my favorite, hitting a target with a water pistol. The squeak and groan of rides is constant. The smell of fried dough and cotton candy reminds me of the other day.