the counters. There’s a sweatshirt draped over the couch and a jacket hung on one of the dining chairs, but otherwise, everything is neatly ordered. The plants are nowhere to be seen.
I start my search in the bedroom, which, like the other rooms in here, is tidy. The bed is made, dirty laundry piled neatly in the bin, an alarm clock and half-full water bottle waiting on the nightstand. I pull open the closet and see two suits hanging, shirts and ties ready and waiting, in case he needs to get dressed quickly. I peer in the nightstand drawers, but apart from an open box of condoms, they’re empty.
A quick scan of the dresser reveals the generic T-shirts, socks, and underwear I’d originally predicted, as well as a few flannel shirts, a Yankees jersey, and a roll of cash wrapped in an elastic band. I figure it’s approximately $4000, assuming it’s all hundreds. More than the average person might keep in their sock drawer, but this is Holden City, and here it’s barely enough to cover a night on the town.
I go through the cabinets in the bathroom, even checking under the toilet lid in case there’s a gun taped there, like I’ve seen in the movies. But there’s not. I peer under the bed, then hoist up the mattress, finding nothing more than a stray sock, and smooth the duvet when I put it back down.
I have no success in the guest bathroom, and the kitchen reveals little past the peanut butter crackers he’d confessed to enjoying, an untouched six-pack of Corona, and a steak marinating in a sealed plastic bag.
Ten minutes later, all I’ve learned is that Chris is freakishly neat, doesn’t own plants, and knows how to marinate. I came here not knowing what I’d find, but all I’ve found are the regular trappings of a rather boring bachelor who doesn’t work at the agricultural college.
And that’s when it hits me. There’s nothing here. No work product. No papers to grade, no text books, no books at all. And the laptop that sat on the dining table on my previous visits is nowhere to be seen. I whirl around, taking in the apartment with new eyes. He might have taken the laptop with him, wherever he is. But if not, then he didn’t know I was coming and so had no reason to hide it. Maybe he takes it to coffee shops to draft his evil plans. Maybe he tucks it in a drawer, out of sight. Or maybe, like any boring bachelor, he takes it with him to the couch, resting it on his knees as he jerks off to whatever flavor porn he likes.
The couch sits in the middle of the apartment, facing the large flat screen television mounted on the wall, which makes it easy to spot the laptop wedged between the side of the couch and the end table, like it’s waiting to be investigated. I scoop it up, knowing this is my last chance. If I don’t find whatever it is I’m looking for here, I’ll never find it.
I rest the laptop on the back of the couch and flip it open, hitting the power key and waiting impatiently as it wakes up. The screen comes to life slowly, my heart hammering as I glance at the door a hundred times, expecting the worst.
As though it knows it’s torturing me, the screen flickers black, then gray, easing into a murky blue. The little wheel icon spins leisurely.
And that’s when I hear it.
Keys jiggling. Metal on metal. The lock turning.
I drop to the floor like a corpse. The couch offers minimal coverage, and I have nowhere to go. If Chris takes six steps into the apartment, he’ll see me. Even if, by some miracle, he goes to his bedroom, in the opposite direction, I’ll still have to make it to the door without being seen or heard.
The door swings open and he enters, and the world comes to a screeching halt. I’m completely exposed and pathetically defenseless. All I have is this stupid laptop now asking me for a password I don’t know. Even if I could guess, it’s unlikely Chris has a folder on his desktop called “Reese Carlisle Plan.” What he does have, however, is a sticker stuck to the side of the keyboard, worn and faded, the edge peeling up like he’s worried it with his thumb. It’s the only sticker on the entire machine, the only sticker in the