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I see the mask last.

Bone-white. Full face. No mouth I can read. A thin dark cut where lips should be. Mesh where the eyes should be. Halloween. Very Michael Myers … well, almost. It’s the kind of thing you put on to get a laugh out of a man who does not laugh enough.

I almost laugh but it comes out wrong.

The figure stands at the glass and does not knock. A driver would knock. Rhys would knock, if this was a game, if he wanted me to look at him for once.

It just stands there.

The phone lights the cupholder again. His name will be on it. I know that without even having to turn it over. I leave it there and look at the white face instead.

“Why are you wearing that thing?” I ask.

They do not answer. One gloved hand lifts and rests on the roof above the passenger door, like this car belongs to them.

I think about the back seat. I think about his door. I think about every night I shut him in and drove and said nothing.

It might not even be him, but they walked straight over to me. They obviously walked over here for a reason. Rhys would have said something by now. Something about this feels wrong.

It has to be him, I try to convince myself.

My thumb finds the unlock button, I hesitate for a moment then I press it.

The locks jump, it’s a sound way too loud for the parking lot at this hour.

The figure still doesn’t move.

I have opened the door for him. However, I do not take my hand off the lock.

11

Rhys Preswood

Friday, October 31st. 3:20 a.m. Halloween.

I called him from the building at twenty to three. He did not pick up.

I left after that. The drive home takes forty minutes on a wet night. Empty bends. Halloween lights in the town below. I told myself he had done what I asked, to stay home. I made it crystal clear that I would drive myself. I did not need him in the building. It is twenty past three when the lodge comes into view.

Glass and dark wood. I park where Shane usually waits.

The space is empty.

Good. That means he listened.

I unlock the door to the house. Warm air, and lights on in the hall. I do not call anyone’s name because nobody lives here but me.

Keys in the dish. Jacket on the chair. There’s an empty glass in the kitchen. Remote on the coffee table in the lounge. Bedroom. Bed made. Bathroom. Black stone. Dry towel.

My phone is still in my hand.

One missed call from Shane sits under the one I made at twenty to three. I missed it while I was leaving. I play the message now.

His voice is rough from the cold.

“It’s me. I know you said stay home, but I was already out. I passed the square. There is tape on the building. Police everywhere. I called you and you didn’t pick up, so I came down to the bay. I’ll wait for you. If you’re still inside, I’m here.”

A short breath.