I go upstairs. The fridge and pantry are a cornucopia of salty snacks: shaved ham, Genoa salami, Triscuits, chips, and a delicious-looking hunk of blue cheese. I place the feast on the ground next to my victim, along with a big plastic bottle labelled “Spring Water” that contains tap water mixed with gasoline. Another little trick I picked up on TV. I look around a bit and find a sleeping bag. Its job will be to absorb sounds, like yelling. I complete the soundproofing by stuffing all the basement windows with cushions. I grab some household cleaner and get to work, just in case. Sure, I’m wearing gloves, but why not clean anyway? I’ve got nothing but time. I readjust my toque. I wash the floor, the plastic bottle, the salty snacks, the place where I set my backpack down. Ditto the rope and duct tape over the prisoner’s mouth, which is gradually getting covered in slobber. Our president and CEO is still sawing logs. I put away the cleaner. Rinse and wring out the rag. Dump it in the laundry hamper.

I cover my victim in a thick wool blanket I found in one of the bedrooms. I close the door leading to Bonenfant’s hideout, which isn’t easy since the sleeping bag gets caught in the door frame. I make sure the air conditioning is off. I turn on the home theatre system and choose a twenty-four-hour news channel. I turn up the volume. I go back to the ground floor. The lights are on a timer, to deter burglars.

He has $380 in his wallet. I only keep the twenties, for a total of $180. I leave the red and brown bills, which attract far too much attention to use to buy an ice cream cone. Muffled sounds from the basement. Something’s squirming down there. Reassured, I leave the house, handling the patio door with care. It’s night now. I let a little air in for a few minutes, to spread the molecules around a bit after spending four hours in this big empty house. The only sound I can hear now is the lapping of the pool. It’s a beautiful clear night. A slender crescent moon glides over the rooftops.

I methodically inventory my bag, by feel, the way I’ve practised. Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I’ll take off my toque while ensuring that that not a single hair falls off. The fence closes behind me with a metallic click. I take off my gloves. Wait five minutes. Nothing moves. I walk toward the tracks. In the middle of the enclaved neighbourhood, I see two raccoons feasting on the contents of two gutted orange garbage bags. I throw my toque and gloves in the garbage juice, and stomp all over them so they’re thoroughly saturated. I bid the night creatures good night, and leave them what’s left of my snack.