Parallel Lies Read Free Page A

would play on do-gooding Midwestern values. From there, he’d see.
    He opened the garage’s side door and started running. All kinds of thoughts went through his head. How had he come to this point? He didn’t belong here. Eighteen months ago he would have laughed at the notion that he would be running across a yard of freshly fallen snow in bloody clothes, with the intention of stealing fresh clothing from complete strangers. He’d been a schoolteacher—eighth grade science and computer science; he’d loved his job, his wife, the twins. To have told him then that the threat on his life would be so high just a few years later; he would never have believed it. And yet here he was.
    He reached the house unnoticed. Perhaps he would not need any elaborate story. He crept up the back porch. A forgotten withered black pumpkin frowned monstrously at him, its jaw frozen, wearing a crown of ice.
    He saw someone inside. An attractive woman in her early thirties, she wore green flannel pajamas, the top unbuttoned enough that she wouldn’t want a strange man gaping at her. Short, but not skinny. Hearty Midwestern stock. Dull hair that hadn’t yet been brushed out. She left the kitchen and returned a minute later cradling a pile of sheets. Alvarez ducked under the window and moved in tandem with her to the far end of the small back porch where another windowlooked in on a pantry, a laundry room. An ironing board stood on all fours next to the window.
    The woman bent over to remove a load of clothes from the dryer, exposing her breasts to him, and he thought how there had been a time when that might have had an effect on him. Now he felt no stirring, no interest whatsoever. He thought of his wife, the crushed car. It strengthened his resolve. He focused on a pair of men’s jeans strung over a clothesline rack in the far corner. The woman lifted a pile of darks to the top of the dryer. He spotted a flannel shirt, some heavy socks. Alvarez leaned back from the window as the woman unloaded the clothes. He sensed that she was about to look out, that she had felt his presence.
    She moved some clothes from the washer to the dryer and then stuffed the sheets into the washer. He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t being watched. He briefly considered entering the kitchen right then—he felt certain the back door would be unlocked—surprising the wife, perhaps tying her up, and stealing some food and clothing. But any such encounter would put him at greater risk. Cops would be called in—his trail would be easier to follow. He began to feel impatient, but the cold in his bones was gone, replaced by hot adrenaline.
    She reentered the kitchen. Alvarez moved cautiously to another window and took a position nearer the porch stairs but still with a view inside. The woman measured out water into a pot and turned on the stove. She pulled down a box of Cream of Wheat and set it on the counter. Morning rituals. He recalled them with longing.
    Then she hurried out, disappearing into another room.
    He was guessing three to five minutes for the water to boil. How accurately did she have such things timed in her head? His wife would have known
exactly.
Three minutes would be plenty for him to get in, grab the clothes, and get back out. He made his move, pulling his hand into the sweatshirt’ssleeve so as not to leave fingerprints on the doorknob as he turned it.
    The door opened. He stepped inside.
    The kitchen smelled like a home. God, he missed that smell. For a moment it owned him, the poignant feeling carrying him away, and then the distant sound of shower water caught his attention. It was warm in here, the first warmth he’d felt in days. Was she just warming up the shower, or getting in? Each option offered a different scenario. He crossed toward the laundry room. He wanted to stay here; he wanted to move in. He pulled the jeans into his arms, stepped to his left and reached for the flannel shirt in the pile of dry clothes.
    The buttons