Fool Me Twice

Bryce Ludlum parked beyond the curve in the road in case any of the Seavers’ neighbors happened to be awake at 2 am. That old vet with the buzz cut who lived next door probably noticed everything and had 911 on speed dial.

Bryce mopped his watering eyes on his sleeve, the craving inside him growing more vicious. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never sink to burglary, but the money from his landscaping job evaporated the instant he got it, and his mother wouldn’t cough up a cent. She was already livid over his misuse of her prescription pads.

Besides, it was almost like Mrs. Seaver wanted him to take the money. She’d hung around while he’d trimmed her azaleas, blabbing about her fear of banks and how her husband said she was senile to keep so much cash under the mattress. And when she’d paid him for the month’s work—peeling the bills off a fat wad of cash—she’d offered him an extra fifty bucks if he’d stop by this weekend and pick up her mail and newspapers while she and her husband drove to Vermont to visit her sister.

And she’d given him a key so he could water her houseplants.

He didn’t want to take the money. He’d pay it back later. But right now, the vision of stacks of crisp green bills made Bryce’s heart race. From the way Evelyn Seaver talked, it sounded like she had enough squirreled away to keep him comfortable for a good long while, plus enough to get him away from Britteridge so he could escape the cops. Mrs. Seaver was a twittery old fool to have confided her weird financial habits to her landscaper, but she wasn’t brain-dead. Once the money turned up missing, she’d point the cops toward Bryce. He’d better leave the state. New York sounded good.

A tremor shot through Bryce’s hands as he shifted his empty backpack, tightening the straps. Sweat crawled down his sides and snaked along the sides of his face. The July night was miserably warm, cursed with one of Massachusetts’ summer heat waves.

All the Seavers’ neighbors, including the nosy twosome next door, had turned off their lights. Fighting nausea, Bryce hurried to the door of the Seavers’ tidy white Cape Cod house. He shoved the key into the lock and eased the door open.

Under the mattress. The master bedroom was upstairs; he remembered that from when Mrs. Seaver had taken him around the house to show him her spider plants and philodendrons. Just a few more minutes and he’d be out of here, his backpack stuffed with the funds that would bring blissful relief.

Bryce switched on his flashlight and hurried up the stairs, his footsteps muffled on the stair runner. The Seavers wouldn’t be back until Sunday night, so he’d have at least two days to get out of town before they discovered the theft and set the cops on the hunt. And chances were, the police wouldn’t look for him very hard. It wasn’t like he was an axe murderer or a terrorist.

At the top of the stairs, he flashed the light into the room on the right and saw a carved headboard looming above a bed. This was it.

He walked into the room and froze. Under the ruffled comforter was the distinctive lump of a human being. What the—

Bryce’s heart bumped around in his chest, and sweat stung his eyes. Mrs. Seaver had said they’d be gone. And she was gone. The beam of the flashlight showed only William Seaver in the bed. Had Bryce misunderstood their plans? No. Mrs. Seaver wouldn’t have needed Bryce to pick up the paper and mail if Mr. Seaver were staying behind. He must have changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe he wasn’t feeling up to the drive—his health was lousy.

Bryce retreated and stood trembling on the threshold. He didn’t want a confrontation. But the thought of slinking out of here with his empty backpack flapping against his ribs made his stomach churn.

Mr. Seaver must sleep like a rock, or he’d already be awake from Bryce’s intrusion. And the money was probably on Mrs. Seaver’s side of the bed, since she was the one who hid it.

Bryce crept into the room, his ears filled with the whistling sound of William Seaver’s snoring. Stripping off his gloves so he could feel the money more easily, Bryce knelt at the unoccupied side of the bed. Delicately, he lifted the comforter and slipped his hand between the mattress and box springs.

Nothing. Bryce pushed his arm farther beneath the mattress and groped.

Seaver grunted and rolled over. Bryce yanked his arm out and curled in a tight ball on the floor.

When Seaver’s snoring resumed, Bryce tried again, searching from the head of the mattress to the foot, shoving his arm in up to the shoulder.

Nothing.

The money must be on Mr. Seaver’s side of the bed.

Bryce crawled around the foot of the bed to the side where Seaver snored. He lifted the edge of the comforter and inserted his fingers between the mattress and box springs, hoping that near the edge he’d feel a big envelope, or whatever Mrs. Seaver used to hold the money.

Breathing faster, Bryce slipped his whole hand into the crevice, then his arm as far as it could go before Seaver’s weight sealed off the opening. Where was the money?

Mr. Seaver wasn’t snoring anymore.

Panic erupted inside Bryce. Without stopping to think, he yanked his hand from under the mattress and shoved Seaver to the side.

“Who’s here?” Seaver hollered.

Bryce grabbed the edge of the mattress and yanked upward with all his strength. Seaver slid off the bed with a thud. Bryce pushed the mattress to the floor and pawed the box springs.

No money. Nothing.

The light clicked on. Seaver was standing by the bed, his cane held aloft like a baseball bat. “Ludlum. What are you doing here?”

“Where’s the money?” Bryce cried.

“What money, you drunken idiot?” Seaver swished the cane. “You think you can rob me?”

Everything was lost now anyway. Bryce would have to run, and he couldn’t do it without the cash. “The money. The money your wife keeps in the house. Give it to me or I’ll break your stinking neck.”

“Try it, punk.” Seaver slashed the air with his cane. “We don’t keep money in the house.”

“Liar!”

Seaver advanced, waving the cane. “Get your sorry tail out of my house.”

Bryce backed away from the cane. “The money—just give it to me and I won’t—”

“You’re stoned. Or high. Or whatever you kids call it these days.” Seaver waved his cane wildly, forcing Bryce into the hall. Seaver swatted the light switch, illuminating the hallway and stairs. “Get out!”

Bryce grabbed for the cane but got a savage whack across the forearm that made him yell in pain. This guy was nuts. Bryce had to get out of here. But there was cash in the house. Even if Mrs. Seaver had made up the story about the hoard under the mattress, Bryce had seen the stack of bills when she’d paid him. There was at least a thousand bucks there.

The kitchen. She’d paid him in the kitchen. Maybe she’d left the money there. Bryce turned toward the stairs.

“Punk thief. Go on—run.” Seaver’s cane crashed against Bryce’s shoulder. Furious, Bryce turned and grabbed for the cane. This time he managed to snag it.

He fought to yank it away from Seaver. The old man stumbled, his wrinkled hands still gripping the curved handle. Bryce swung the cane to the side in an attempt to break his attacker’s grip, and Seaver staggered, his knees buckling. Bryce yanked again, ripping the cane from his grasp.

Off balance, Seaver flailed crazily to catch himself, but failed. He tumbled down the stairs, legs flying up, his striped pajamas flapping around skinny ankles.

At the bottom of the stairs, he lay still.

Bryce gaped at Seaver; the old guy was lying in a heap with bony limbs bent. Still clutching the cane, Bryce rushed down the stairs and leaned over him.

Blood. A lot of blood.

He’d killed Seaver. Murdered him.

Bryce dropped the cane and leapt back from Seaver’s body. Light burst inside his skull, accompanied by sharp pain.

Bryce fell to his knees. Warmth trickled down the back of his neck. Dazed, he looked up and saw a heavy wooden curio shelf affixed to the wall. He must have cracked his head on the edge of the shelf. Now his blood was on the shelf. More evidence.

Bryce swore and wrenched open the front door. Dizzily, he stumbled down the steps.

* * *

Evelyn Seaver shivered as she stepped through the doorway. After the suffocating warmth of the garage, the house felt particularly chilly. William was always excessive in his use of air conditioning.

She walked carefully through the darkened family room and along the hallway, heading for the stairs. The stair light was on, illuminating part of the living room. Evelyn clucked her tongue. So wasteful, to leave a light blazing in the middle of the night.A crumpled figure in striped pajamas was sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Evelyn froze, her hand pressed to her heart. William’s cane lay next to him, along with a small wooden carving of a horse and a copper vase that had spilled its bouquet of dried flowers.

Resisting the impulse to return the knickknacks to the curio shelf, Evelyn moved to William’s side and leaned over him. He groaned. There was blood on his face from a split lip and, most likely, a broken nose. A large bump pushed through his thinning hair.

Evelyn stared at him, her heart pounding uncomfortably fast.