Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl by Carolita Blythe Read Free Book Online Page A

to the old lady’s apartment, I just stand in front of her door, staring. I put my ear to it, hoping I’ll hear some noise—maybe the television or the radio. Maybe she’s listening to Lawrence Welk records or Frank Sinatra or whatever old white people sit around listening to. I don’t really know. I’ll take a toilet flush or a blender. Anything. But there’s only silence.
    I try to look through the peephole, but I can’t see anything, just a small stream of light. I take a couple of deep breaths. The brass doorknob is just staring up at me. It’s telling me to turn it. We didn’t lock the door behind us when we left, so if the knob gives, then I’ll know no one has been in or out of the apartment since we were there yesterday. But my hand is shaking so much, I can hardly get it aroundthat doorknob. I swear, it takes like fifteen minutes for me to concentrate long enough to grab hold of it. It’s smooth and cold against my palm. And suddenly, I realize I’m having a problem breathing. It’s like my breath is being held hostage in my throat and not making it all the way down to my lungs. Thank God I have my inhaler. And my knees are trembling like crazy. I don’t really have a remedy for that. Maybe if there was more fat on them, they’d be more stable.
    Okay, just turn it a little to the left, I say to myself. Maybe it won’t turn at all. But I only apply enough force to make it turn a smidgeon; then it clicks back to its normal place. I remove my hand, shake it out, then put it back on the knob. I take one more deep breath and crank the thing as far as it will go, expecting it to not turn very far. But it does. It goes like in a full circle, and the next thing I know, the door opens a few inches. But I don’t have much time to be freaked out, because I hear footsteps on the stairs.
    I try to let go of the knob, but now I can’t seem to. It’s like that guy on those commercials whose hard hat is Krazy Glued to that beam. I can’t move my hand. And so I just stand there frozen, like an icicle. My heartbeat is coming as if it’s in stereo, making it hard for me to hear anything else. And suddenly, I see these two kids land on the first floor. And there’s an older man behind them—their father, maybe. But thank God, they never turn around.
    I watch as they walk through the front doors and turn left once they reach the sidewalk. I’m sweating bullets. That door shouldn’t have opened. It shouldn’t have. That means she’s still in there. Probably where we left her. Oh man. I’mjust going to have to hypnotize myself into forgetting about this. It’s out of my control now, and there’s no way I’ll be able to eat, sleep, or function if I dwell on it. If I turn on Eyewitness News and see Bill Beutel or Roger Grimsby reporting about the murder of some old lady on Parkside Avenue, I’m just going to have to do the best acting job ever. Give an Oscar-worthy performance.
    I yank the door shut and my hand away from the doorknob and take off running. It must be forty-five degrees outside, but I’m sweating and panting like a thirsty little puppy on a hot summer day. I pass the shady card dealer surrounded by a new batch of suckers, and I yell out:
    “Are you people stupid? It’s a scam. A scam! You can’t win.” And I keep running down Parkside Avenue like I’ve lost my mind.

The running continues
once I reach my block. I shoot straight past my building, past the next couple of buildings, and past the tiny houses wedged between them. I keep going until I get to the six-story brown brick building near the other end of the street. My hands are shaking so badly I hit the wrong intercom button at first. But I tell myself to breathe, and I focus really hard and manage to press 4B. There’s a crackle, then Caroline’s voice.
    “It’s me, Faye!” I yell. “The knob wasn’t supposed to turn. The door wasn’t supposed to open. She’s dead! She’s dead! I know she is!”
    The intercom buzzes