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“Take your time. I’m checking work email,” I lie.
I spent the early morning turning up the charm for one Ms. Mallorie Pryce, a 29-year-old divorcee with C-cup tits, a little too much lipstick, and the kind of bright white smile you only see in first-world countries. She wears her blonde hair in a pretty bun. As she fumbles with her megapurse, a strand escapes and hangs down by her face. With a half-curled hand, she pushes it away. Her tension feels corporeal between us, despite the beauty of the wooded clearing where we stand under a gray sky.
Finally, she exhales loudly and pulls a key ring from her bag.
“Here we go.” She gives me a smile that panders with its stiff width and apologetic eyes. “There you are, Mr. Drake.” She holds the key ring out, its trio of keys dangling. I slide my phone into my pocket and take it, wrapping it in my fist.
“Thank you, Mallorie. I appreciate this.”
“Hey, no problem.” She holds out her arms, over-emphasizing her agreeability. Because, even as I’m trying to act “normal,” I’m making her uncomfortable. Not enough so that she consciously notices. (In fact, she thinks she likes me; I know because I listened to the phone call she made from her car this morning as she left the showing). Rather, just enough so she’s more pliant than she’d be with someone else. Just enough to make her want to bend the rules for me.
“When I asked Mr. Haywood, he didn’t have a problem with it,” she continues. “His bank expedited the transfer of the cash so it’s all in his account now, safe and sound.” She winks. “He didn’t plan to go into the house again, so why couldn’t you go ahead and get the key?”
Her tone is soft and understanding, as if she’s advocating for me. When I don’t return her friendly smile quite fast enough, hers falters, her plump lips pinching nervously. She smiles again to cover her anxiety.
“The closing should be sometime in the next four to six weeks. Until then, he doesn’t want to deal with rent. He’s happy knowing the sale went through, with no harm to the bear place next door. You know that was an issue,” she says with one eyebrow arched.
I nod.
“Don’t worry about her, though.” She lowers her voice, as if the woman next door can hear her across the 340 yards between our properties. “The bears are in a very secure enclosure, like I told you earlier. With your background, I’m sure you could handle yourself either way.” She winks again and gives a fake laugh.
I smile, hoping to project a tranquil, slightly grateful expression that will prompt her to get going.
“You know, Gwenna White…she keeps to herself.” She glances over her shoulder, at the trees. “She got hurt sometime back. No one really knows the details, but she has a limp, and…some, well, facial…differences. When she smiles…”
I feel the smile slip off my own f
ace.
“Very pretty woman, though. And very nice.” Again, the soothing tone. Slightly patronizing, really, not that I give two fucks.
I nod. “Thank you again, Mallorie.”
Embarrassment stains her cheeks. That she made small talk with me, and I—what? Didn’t seem interested enough? All this time learning to blend in, and now I’m living here among the civvies, realizing that, in fact, I don’t.
“Any time,” she says. “I’ll keep you posted as we move toward closing. I know where you live.” She shakes her finger.
I offer a tight smile. It was intended to look genuine and kind, but as the circumstances go, the half-grimace seems to be the best that I can do.
Three minutes later, Ms. Pryce’s pale blue Buick SUV is rolling down the long driveway, toward Blue Moon Road, an offshoot of a long, scenic road that leads from northeast Gatlinburg, Tennessee, to the stretch of I-40 between Hartford and Newport.
Alone again at last, I turn to face the house and look up at the porch. It’s at the top of sixteen thick, stone stairs, and like the rest of the second and third floors, rests atop a tall stone foundation that serves as the external walls of the lowermost level.
The movement of the porch swing catches my eye and snatches a knot of tension in my chest. I’ll need to bolt it down. Perhaps even remove it.
It’s the little things, I think. I can’t control it all, but what I can…
I look around me, at the verdant pine forest, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. This was unplanned, but it works out perfectly. Not just for the larger plan, but because I’ve always loved the cover of a forest. Sure as fuck beats somewhere dry and barren.
I turn back to my new-ish bike, a Harley Wide Glide I parked beside the garage, on the right side of the house. Stashed in the vegetation near the house’s stone base is my pack. I throw it over my shoulder, then walk up the stairs and unlock the front door with the only key that’s sized to fit a deadbolt.
The slick, mahogany door opens to the house’s high-end kitchen. It’s got granite, stainless, all the shit people are always crowing about on TV shows like House Hunters. The floors are all hardwood, and there’s no wall or other dividing line between the kitchen and the cavernous living area.
The living room is done in dark woods and stone, with a two-story ceiling, an enormous, L-shaped couch in a soft, shearling-type material, a weathered leather recliner, a coffee table that looks to have been made of tree limbs, and two thick, cedar rocking chairs.
Across from the couch, on the wall to my right, is an enormous stone fireplace with a mantel that sports what has to be a five-foot-long flatscreen. The back wall of the living area—which also happens to be the rearmost wall of the house—is part slider door. I know from my tour this morning that the door opens to a stilted, second-story deck that overlooks the forest.
To the right of the slider door, nestled into a corner, is a large gun cabinet. My gaze clings to it for a moment. Then I stride through the kitchen, into the den, and hang a left, heading down a staircase that leads to a wine cellar and home gym.
