Leon cocked an eyebrow. “So? You graduated from high school last year, you don’t owe him anything.”
“But he’s a good guy, man. We shouldn’t do this here. We should go somewhere else.”
“Good people have fucked up shit happen to them every day,” Leon said. “What else is new? You’re a good little boy, but look what kind of life you’ve got-your moms died a druggie and you don’t even know your daddy’s name. Right? Cry me a river some other time. Toss the goddamn closet so we can clear out of here.”
Face burning, Corey turned away and yanked open the closet doors. It was full of men’s suits and shirts on the left side, and women’s dresses and outfits on the right; the women’s clothing took up far more space. A double-stacked row of shoeboxes filled a shelf above the hangers.
Corey swept the shoeboxes to the floor and tore off the lids. Shoes tumbled out, heels and sandals and flats, oxfords and loafers and sneakers. But at the bottom of the pile, a Nike Air Jordan shoebox held a rubber-banded knot of cash.
“Bingo,” Leon said, peering over Corey’s shoulder.
Corey heard the door creak open at the front of the house. A man shouted in shock and rage.
Terror squeezed Corey’s throat.
We’re caught, he thought. It’s over.
But after the flash of fear, he felt unexpected relief. If he didn’t have the guts to stop doing this on his own, then someone else could make him stop.
But Leon’s eyes had dwindled to hard slits. He pulled the Glock out of his waistband.
“What’re you doing, man?” Corey whispered.
“I’m not going down for this. Neither are you.”
Leon stalked out of the bedroom.
Heart hammering, Corey left the money in the box and hurried after him.
A man was at the end of the hall. Bald-headed, with glasses, a walrus mustache, and a prominent belly, it was the man from the pictures, Mr. Rowland, Corey’s junior-year English teacher. Corey remembered him fondly. Mr. Rowland brought donuts for the class on exam days and let the students select the books they wanted to read for book reports-Corey had once picked an X-Men comic, expecting a rebuke, and Mr. Rowland had actually praised him for his choice.
As Leon approached, Mr. Rowland raised his hands in surrender.
“Look, kids. . take whatever you want,” he said in a tremulous voice. “I–I won’t call the police. No one has to be hurt here.”
Corey slid behind Leon and turned to hide his face, but Mr. Rowland’s eyes brightened in recognition. “Corey? Is that you? My God, son-”
Leon shot Mr. Rowland in the chest, the gunfire deafening. Corey’s mouth flew open to scream, but no sound came out, his throat feeling completely locked up.
Mr. Rowland gasped and dropped to his knees. A dark bloodstain spread across the breast of his white dress shirt. He clutched his chest, wedding band glinting.
“Please, God. .” he whispered.
With the cold efficiency of an experienced mercenary, Leon stood over him and shot him again, in the head. Mr. Rowland fell backward to the floor.
Corey moaned. His knees folded, and he slumped to the carpet in the middle of the hallway. His stomach convulsed, vomit clawing at his throat, and some of it escaped his lips and dribbled down his chin.
“I had to do it,” Leon said, with a backward glance at Corey. His eyes shone, face glistening with sweat, and it struck Corey that Leon was excited-he had that same frenetic appearance when he was in a shooter’s zone on the basketball court. “This guy knew who you were. He would have gone to the cops anyway soon as we left, we had no choice.”
Corey tried to speak, couldn’t. His head felt as if it were being crushed in a vise.
Leon searched Mr. Rowland’s pockets. He found a wallet; he opened it and took all of the cash. He fished a brushed chrome cigarette lighter out of his pocket, too.
“Looks like an antique, probably worth something, I’m keeping this, uh-huh,” Leon said, and shoved it into his bag.
Corey wiped his lips and finally managed to speak. “I. . I can’t believe you. . you killed him.”
Leon stormed across the room to Corey and jabbed his long finger in Corey’s face.
“We killed him, you and me, get it straight,” Leon said. “You’re the one who knew the guy, I had to kill him. Because of you, he would have gone to the law and identified you and that would’ve led to me, too. We’re equally responsible for this, joined at the hip, suck it up and deal with it. We did it, and that’s the end of it.”
Corey’s gaze dropped away from Leon and fixed on Mr. Rowland’s body, watched the blood leaking from his head and chest and trickling into the plush carpet. As he stared, eyes glazing over, he strongly wished this was only a dream, a nightmare, from which he would soon awaken. .
When Corey blinked, he felt ice crusting on his eyelids and forming a hard ring around his lips. He had zoned out. He wasn’t sure for how long.
It had felt like a lifetime.
He hadn’t let himself recall the vivid details of Mr. Rowland’s murder in many years. He’d restricted himself from reliving that day, as if by refusing to think about it in concrete terms, it would somehow fade away and become something that had never happened.
He had witnessed a good man murdered and done nothing. He hadn’t gone to the police. He hadn’t pressed Leon to turn himself in. They had walked out of the house, returned to Leon’s car, and driven off, and when Mr. Rowland’s wife discovered his body that evening, the police launched an investigation that never circled within ten miles of him and Leon.
It was the last time they pulled a job together. Leon, emboldened by the killing, his first, quickly grew impatient with Corey’s reluctance to hang with him any more. He struck out on his own exclusively, and three months later finally got arrested when robbing a liquor store. Soon after, Grandma Louise died, and Corey relocated to Atlanta and started a new life.
But the past still trapped him.
Tears spilled from his eyes and streamed down his face. Sobs shook him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, tongue thick, throat aching. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
He had never cried for what he had done. He’d been too frightened of what he might feel compelled to do if he let himself break down. After so many years of being repressed, the guilt, pain, and tears were like a great dam pent up inside him. He let it all out, and his tears were so hot they burned furrows through the ice on his cheeks and steamed on the floor.
I’m so sorry, please, forgive me, I’m so sorry.
He cried for Rowland and his family. He cried for himself, for the shame he’d carried for so long.
He would finally confess, he decided. He would find Simone, and he would tell her what he had done, for as his wife and his sworn life partner, she deserved to know before everyone else.
Then he would tell the police, and let them handle him as they saw fit. He would not carry this burden anymore. He would see justice served, even if it meant giving up his freedom.
But first, he had to get out of there.
He blinked away his tears, shifted. His head was nestled against his outstretched arm. A mantle of ice was forming where his cheek touched his shirt sleeve.
From his position on the floor, he could see beneath the bottom of the wire rack that stood nearest the freezer door. In the dim cone of overhead light, he thought he made out a faint outline in the wall against which the rack stood. Like the seam of some kind of panel.