The Break-In (3 page)

Marcus excused himself and dug through his dresser for a T-shirt. When he’d moved home, he hadn’t taken much care with unpacking. He had wadded up most of his clothes and stuffed them into drawers made for children’s clothes. He pulled on the least wrinkled shirt he could find and a pair of jeans. Lisa loved him in jeans.

Hair still dripping, he sank into the chair across from her. He smiled, frozen by the pressure of the moment. He needed to say something clever,
something to impress her. Something to make her desperate to have him back in her life. But all he came up with was, “Wow. You look great.”

“Thanks.”

“How’ve you been?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears and glanced around the room. “Did you see my good ring in your boxes after you moved out of the Poplar Avenue house? I can’t find it.”

“Going Home
is playing at the Empire Theatre. Have you heard of it? Getting great reviews.”

“I really need the ring back, Marcus. Have you unpacked everything?”

“What? Yes. Which ring—your grandma’s emerald?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking it might be above the medicine cabinet in the bathroom,” Lisa said. “Remember? I hid it there so no robber could find it.”

“Why don’t you knock on the door and ask the new people to look?”

“I already went. This lady answered and she had all these rings—one on every finger. You know what that means.”

“No,” Marcus admitted.

Lisa sighed. “It means she’s a ring person. So I know exactly what would happen. She’d go look, find it, stick it in her pocket. She’d come back to the door all, ‘Sorry, I couldn’t find any ring.’”

“I don’t know about that.”

Lisa shifted forward on the sofa cushion and peered toward the kitchen. “You’re sure your mom is at work?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I have an idea. It involves you.”

Here was Lisa, asking him for help. It was like a dream.

“I still have my key,” she said. “I’ll give it to you. Then you drive back to the house and get the ring while they’re all at work.”

He squinted at her. “Wait—you want me to break in?”

“Not break in. Just go get my ring. There’s no law against going and getting something you forgot.”

“There is when it’s inside a house you don’t live in anymore.”

She tugged her hair out of her ponytail and messed up the front so it fell in front of her cheekbones. Then she looked up at him with those crazy greyish-purple eyes. “Please?”

“Lisa. Let’s be real. We could speak to the landlord, and he’ll—”

“If we do that,
he’ll
pocket the ring. Don’t you see how easy this will be? You open the door. You walk into the bathroom. You get me my ring, and then ...” Lisa paused to smile at him the way he adored, with her lower teeth showing. She shrugged with one shoulder. “And then, who knows?”

He thought about this for a moment. What did she mean, “who knows”? That they’d get back together?

“I’d really, really appreciate it.”

“It’s just that it’s illegal. Break and enter.”

She set the key on the table and pushed it toward him. “You’d be in and out in less than a minute.”

“It takes me longer than that to untie my shoes.”

“You’re not taking your shoes off, for god’s sakes!”

“What if I get caught?” Marcus said. “I could go to jail.”

“How are you going to get caught? You’re walking in with a key. And the neighbours are used to seeing you.”

“Yeah, they’ll wonder why I’m walking into the new people’s place!”

“No one notices their neighbours. Everyone’s too busy with their own crap. Come on, Marcus. Life is messy. You have to deal.”

Life is messy. Just like Dr. Ling said. Marcus reached for the key and stood up. “All right. I’ll go get your ring back.” He closed his eyes as she kissed his cheek.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d get his life back, too.

An hour later, Marcus brought his rusted black Civic to a stop on Poplar Avenue. He’d been calm the whole way over. His mother had left him a grocery list, and he’d been clear-headed enough to stop at the store. But now, with the front door of the house so close, panic rose up his throat.

What if someone saw him? What if Mr. Morrison, across the street, was looking out his window right now? What if he called the police? The guy was crazy. Let the air out of all four of Lisa’s tires one morning because she’d parked too close to his driveway. And when Marcus had called him on it, the old guy had laughed. “When you’re at work,” he said, “your girlfriend entertains other fellas. All of ’em better looking than you.” Lisa denied this,
of course. Marcus had wished Morrison dead ever since.

A school bus full of children crept past. All the kids had their faces pressed against the window. Staring at him. Probably memorizing the colour of his hair, the space between his eyes, the make of his car. All so they could describe everything to the police, the newspapers. The judge.

Marcus’s heart hammered. Then it seemed to skip a beat—held still for a moment, then beat twice. Could a twenty-seven-year-old have a heart attack? He climbed out of the car and leaned against the door. Bent over to slow his breathing. Calm the hell down.

Lisa and Dr. Ling were right. Life was itchy and scratchy. And you didn’t get anywhere by hiding from it.

Marcus stood up straight. That was that. He’d forget about neighbours and heart attacks and jail time, and get on with living. He started up the driveway to get the ring.

He’d win his girlfriend back if it killed him.

Standing in front of his parents’ closet, Alex pulled on his dad’s police shirt. Way too big, but who cared? As he buttoned it, he found himself staring at the big, silver safe on the closet floor. He wasn’t allowed to touch it. When there was a gun in the house, there were extra rules. But those rules didn’t apply today. His dad was dead and his mom wasn’t home.

No one was around to stop him.

The numbers went 71-11-26. His mother’s birthday and the combination of the safe. He wasn’t supposed to know it, but he did. He’d been reading in his own room, next to theirs, when they brought the safe home from Staples. They hadn’t exactly whispered it.

With a few turns of the dial, the safe door swung open. There, under the box of his father’s work things that the sergeant had given to Alex, was the gun. And holster.

Never before had he touched them.

He buckled the holster around his waist. Slipped the gun into it. His dad’s pilot-style sunglasses winked at him from the dresser. He slid them into his shirt pocket and looked in the mirror. Even with the holster belting it tight, the shirt came almost to his knees. But still. He raised the gun to chest height, pointed it to the ceiling. He squinted as if staring down a bad guy.

He looked awesome. The way he would when he himself was a cop one day.

The ringing phone startled him. With the gun tucked under his arm, he answered without saying hello.

“Alex? How are you doing?” It was his mother.

“F-f-f ...” The gun started to slip and he squeezed his arm tighter to his body. “F-f-f ...”

“You doing okay, little man?”

He nodded.

“I can’t hear you. Tap the phone once if you’re okay. Twice if you’re not.”

Tap. The revolver slipped further down his ribs. The gun now pointed at his face. Looking into the barrel was like staring down the black hole of death. He shifted it to point it toward the wall.

“Okay. I was thinking of bringing home hamburgers for dinner.”

Silence.

“Once if you’re fine with burgers.”

Tap.

“And, honey, I really want you to go to school tomorrow.”

Silence.

“Honey?”

Silence.

Alex’s mother sighed. “Okay. We’ll talk about it later. I’ll get you onion rings.”

Silence.

“Alex, are you still there?”

As Alex tapped, the gun dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk.

“What was that noise?” she said.

Lucky the gun wasn’t loaded.

“Alex, are you all right?”

Tap.

“I’ll see you tonight, little man.”

He tossed the phone onto the bed and pulled the bullet out of his pocket. It slid into the revolver with a satisfying click.

Marcus pulled the key out of his pocket and prayed it would work. The little house on Poplar Avenue had always had a sticky lock. Lisa used to nag Marcus to spray the keyhole with some sort of oil. Because one time, on a really snowy winter day, she couldn’t get in. She and her groceries had to wait on the steps for a half-hour in the howling wind. By the time Marcus got home to jiggle the key the right way, Lisa couldn’t feel her toes.

Now Marcus turned the key and bumped the door with his shoulder. The door opened with ease. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited, listened. There were no cars in the driveway, but still. Maybe they didn’t have cars, these people. When he was sure
nobody was home, he stepped inside. Slipped off his running shoes and set them neatly on the mat. He wasted valuable seconds staring at the new wall colour. A fresh, pale blue. In fact, the whole place looked different. It had something of a home-like feel now. When he and Lisa lived here, the rooms looked less comfortable. Not like a place you stay at for very long. More like a place you stop at on your way to someplace else.

Enough with the daydreams. It was time to act.

As Marcus tiptoed along the hall toward the bathroom, Alex was busy at the back of the house. He dropped the spider back in his tank after trying to give him some exercise. The workout on the foot of his bed had been kind of a bust. Picking up Boris was more horrible than Alex had imagined. All those legs moving at once. Those prickly hairs. The possibility of getting bitten—even by the non-poisonous Boris. As gently as he could, Alex had tossed the spider onto the blanket. Then he spent the next half-hour trying to think how to put Boris back without actually touching him.

In the end, he counted to three, bit down on his tongue to distract himself, and did it. But one
thing was certain. He never wanted to touch Boris again.

Which wasn’t going to help his plan.

Alex looked out the window at the backyard. A good cop always considers the facts.

Fact one. His dad had been standing at the side of the road.

Fact two. A speeding car had hit both Alex’s dad and the door of the silver car he’d pulled over.

Fact three. The hit-and-run car had left dark red paint on the silver car.

Fact four. Dark red was not a popular car colour these days. Why would it be? It looked like dried blood.

Fact five. The accident took place right around the corner. Less than five blocks from home. And right across from home was Mr. Morrison’s house. Morrison had an old red Ford Taurus.

Fact six, the most important fact of all. Mr. Morrison wanted revenge.

Alex’s dad used to say, you catch the criminals, and they’re out on the streets the next week. He’d said it a million times. Even if the police did believe Alex, turning in Morrison wouldn’t work, not long term. He had to take care of the guy himself.

He started toward the kitchen for a snack. Before he could work out the details of his plan, he needed to fill his stomach.

Less than halfway down the hall, he heard a noise. A bump. No, not a bump. More of a thud. Or a thunk. Yes, that was it. A thunk. It sounded like it was coming from the bathroom.

He froze. It wasn’t even one o’clock. His mother wouldn’t leave work until five. Which meant one thing.

Alex was in the middle of a break and enter.

His heart beat so hard he could feel it in his throat. He wanted to run. But to get out, he had to pass the bathroom.

The police sergeant’s words echoed in his head.
You’re the man of the house now, son. It’s up to you to take care of things around here.
Alex knew what that meant. It meant he had to take care of his mother.

His mother—what if she came home early? Walked right into the crime scene? He couldn’t lose his only parent.

As quietly as he could, he slipped into the spare bedroom and picked up the phone. Dialled 911. Nothing happened. There was no dial tone,
just dead air. Now he remembered. He had just dropped the phone on the bed after his mother called. He hadn’t actually hung up.