He knew the stopwatch was in here somewhere. But when the count got to six hundred, he wasn’t sure anymore if he was right. He thought he remembered having the watch out one day on the work site. Did he leave it? No, he put it back. He was almost positive. The muscles in his arm trembled. His legs were going rubber. And was he at six hundred going over to seven hundred or should he only be heading into the six hundreds now? He should have parked in the shade.

The timer was under the seat, pinned by a shoe box—filled with coins, an American-flag bandanna stiff with dirt, an empty key ring with a crumbling stress squeezer on it, and a pack of mints melted solid.

He should throw that stuff away. There was a trash can across the parking lot. It was just junk. His eyes roamed the piles of stuff in the truck, the silhouette like a mountain range. He put the box back under the seat.

It took twenty-four seconds to tie his boots.

He could hold his breath for forty-one seconds. Fifty-six if he counted the exhale and dragged it out until his lungs burned.

Marcelline had shown him that the picture on the wall in John’s house was close to the door. It might take only as long to tie his boots as to break the window and get inside John’s house. Then six steps. That’s all. Six steps, twelve round-trip, not hurrying. It only took him twelve seconds.

And he would be hurrying.

Less time than it took to tie his boots plus way less time than he could hold one breath altogether. He could be brave for that long. Please.

It would be done. Done. Done right. Please.

Walking in and out of the alley, holding a gun, not shooting it, should have taken thirty-nine seconds. At the most. He’d spent all that day timing himself, and it was what he’d thought the worst case would be—thirty-nine horribly scary seconds. It would be less time if he could be better, if he could not be pulled under a tidal wave of freezing fear. But thirty-nine seconds was the worst that could happen. It wasn’t that bad.

He’d been to the liquor store, but couldn’t feel the raspberry minis. And he’d already been shaking when he drank the first can of energy drink, so he couldn’t tell if that was working either. He’d had three total since putting all his stuff back in the truck, with one vodka each in the first two cans, and two poured into the last one. He couldn’t feel any of it. Please.

His fingers were numb and he caught himself holding his breath even without the stopwatch.

Please.

Please.

Let it be over.

Please.

CHAPTER TWENTY