CHAPTER 2

The man rode his bicycle west along the two-lane blacktop, the glow of the full moon lighting his way. The temperature had dropped to twenty-eight degrees, but the exercise of pedaling kept him warm beneath the black hoodie. He tried to focus on the small details of his trip: the cadence of his breath, the crunch of grit beneath his tires. It kept his mind busy, distracted from the terrible thing that he was about to do.

“Don’t obsess on the big picture,” his partner had said. “It’s just a series of small steps, one thing following another.”

One step at a time—the man liked that suggestion because it calmed his trembling nerves. Step one: Ride the bicycle from the motel room to her house, a route that took him out of Grand Rapids and across a bridge that spanned the Mississippi River. After the bridge, he took to the bike path next to the highway, twice hiding in the woods as cars passed by.

“You’ll have second thoughts,” his partner had said. “Don’t give in to them. Focus on the plan.”

After an hour, he turned onto the narrow road that led into the woods and to her house, the lane twisting its way through birch and pine. He passed three other houses on the way to hers, all of them set back far enough from the road that he could scarcely make out their shadowy silhouettes through the trees.

When he arrived at her driveway, he rolled the bike into the trees and knelt on the ground, his knees weak, his fingers trembling. A wave of misgivings churned his stomach. His little hiding spot smelled of mud and pine. Soft nettles covered the ground beneath him, and the sky above glittered with stars. The tranquil beauty of the night nearly brought him to tears. How had his life come to this?

He tried to think of the greater good—the ends that justified the means—but that kind of thinking only confused him, filling his head with questions he should have asked but hadn’t. One step at a time, he thought. Follow the plan.

The house had been built in the seventies and had a picture window at the front flanked by two single-hung windows with no screens. His partner had promised that the window on the left had warped years ago, preventing the lock from setting. The man pulled a ski mask down to cover his face and slipped on a pair of thin gloves.

He had been assured that there would be no dog, and so far there wasn’t. At the window, he ran a finger along the sash. A tiny voice whispered that this was the point of no return, but in truth, he had stepped beyond that point months ago. He gave the window a little push, but it didn’t move.

Had his partner been wrong? Had someone fixed the bow? Reset the lock? It was too dark to see inside, to know for certain. Maybe this was his way out. How could he be at fault if the window couldn’t be opened? With all the tools in his rucksack, he’d never thought to bring a flashlight. That wasn’t part of the plan. If he could just see the latch, be certain that it had been fixed… No, that wouldn’t fly. He would not be forgiven for his failure. He had to see it through, one way or another.