pushed it away, knowing it was far too optimistic. No, if he could kill Henry, then the most he could expect from the rest of his life was to not hurt anyone else, to get through the days and years unscathed. That would be enough.
The taxi let him out a block away from his apartment building. It was now dark, the wind lessening but the temperatures dropping. He pulled his hood up over his head and tightened the strings. With his hands pushed into his jean pockets, he walked toward 101, but before he reached the gated entryway, he crossed the street, not wanting to bump into a resident face-to-face. He moved slowly, looking for a place where he could hunker down and keep an eye on the building. If Henry had visited Kate already, he might visit again. He’d feel better watching his apartment building than he would in his hotel room, waiting for morning to arrive.
Bury Street was primarily redbrick and residential, the entryways well lit, but 106 Bury Street had retained its old stable doors, slightly recessed so that Corbin could sit on a low stone riser. It wasn’t a hidden spot, but he was halfway between streetlamps and relatively in the dark. More important, he could see the entryway to his building and also the living room windows of his own apartment. They glowed with lamplight, the curtains halfway pulled. Corbin pulled his legs up tight, pressing his back against the wooden stable doors, and tried to make himself as unnoticeable as possible.
Over the next two hours, Corbin watched several people come and go from the building. Most of them he recognized. There was the old woman who was friends with the Valentines, out walking her small asthmatic pug. She took the dog just beyond the gates, toward the short hedge that bordered the neighboring property. The pug snooped around and eventually peed on the sidewalk. The woman cast a glance in Corbin’s direction. He raised his head slightly, hoping she’d see that he was Caucasian. Otherwise, she just might call the police. A short time later, Corbin watched Mrs. Heathcote get out of a taxicab in front of the building, the driver carrying her two bags of groceries across the courtyard for her. A few other people Corbin didn’t recognize came and went, but none of them was either his cousin Kate or Henry Wood.
As the night darkened, the streetlamps seemed to cast brighter, wider circles of light, and Corbin wondered how long it would be before some paranoid neighbor called the police to report a loiterer. If the police did come, he could simply say he was resting. He could use a Dutch accent and provide Bram’s ID. They’d move him along, but they wouldn’t take him in. At least, he hoped not.
Corbin heard loud, irregular footsteps and watched as a man who looked about his age stopped in front of the courtyard. He swayed slightly, as though drunk, then looked up, directly at the windows of Corbin’s—now Kate’s—apartment. Was it Henry? It didn’t look like him from behind—too tall and solid—but maybe it was. Then the man turned his head, and in the light from the moon and the streetlamp, Corbin recognized Alan, the guy from the other side of the building who had asked Corbin once if he was seeing Audrey Marshall. Why was he looking up at Kate’s windows? Maybe that was just his thing—a weirdo who liked to look into windows. Hadn’t he decided that that was how Alan had found out about his relationship with Audrey? Corbin pulled his legs in tighter and lowered his head, as though he was trying to keep warm. Alan lurched through the gates into the courtyard; with each step he looked as though he was about to fall, just managing to get a foot down before it happened.
The street was quiet again, and Corbin started to stand, wanting to stretch his legs, when he saw another figure rounding onto Bury from Brimmer Street. He quickly sat back down, pressed against the door into the shadows.
It was Henry.
Corbin was almost sure of it. His whole body was pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Even though he couldn’t see the man’s features, the way he was walking—fast clip, shoulders back—was so familiar. He was so sure it was Henry that he was baffled when the man walked straight past the entryway to 101, not even turning his head, and kept walking toward the river. Corbin