Carry Me Home by Rosalind James

that same window. Which told her it wasn’t just sex. Flowers were romance.
    She bent down on the concrete slab, picked up the plain glass vase full of chrysanthemums in bronze and gold. Fall colors. Halloween colors. She balanced the vase on a hip, opened the sliding-glass door and locked it behind her, set the vase on the coffee table, and plucked the white envelope out of its holder.
    A Halloween card. Aw. That was sweet. Prepare to be spooked , the outside proclaimed. She opened it and laughed. Bigfoot, holding a sign. Have a hairy scary Halloween .
    Trick or treat, pretty girl , was printed in block letters beneath. Not signed, because he hadn’t had to sign it. She smiled and sighed. She’d already gotten her treat. What had happened the other night, and flowers. Two pretty good treats.
    She pulled her phone out of her pack, texted him.
    Just wanted to say I loved it. Thank you.
    She carried the phone with her while she took her things into her bedroom, and sure enough, it dinged within five minutes.
    Anytime , he’d texted back. See u tomorrow.
    She wouldn’t eat any M&M’s, she vowed. Not a single packet. Next time she got naked with him, there was going to be a pound less of her. Meanwhile, she’d heat up some soup and do those corrections. This was going to be her new leaf, because there was no way she was flunking out of school and going home, no matter how many panic attacks she had during a midterm. She was in charge of her life, and she was going to stay in charge of it.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN
    He swung himself up, balanced for a second on top of the wooden fence, then dropped to a crouch on the other side, his navy-blue sweatshirt and dark blue jeans blending into the shadows.
    He could have walked straight up the driveway and around the sidewalk. Not like there was anybody around, not at three in the morning. The witching hour, when sleep was deepest, defenses were lowest. His favorite time of night.
    But you never knew. Somebody up late studying, some guy banging his girlfriend, then coming outside to smoke a cigarette? He’d gotten away with this so far not just because of his . . . advantages, but because he was smart, and he was careful, and he planned.
    Fail to plan , he reminded himself, or plan to fail . He didn’t plan to fail. Not tonight. Not ever.
    Amy had been savvier, more aware than most of them, but that just made her more of a challenge. She’d picked up on him faster, although not as fast as she could have, because she hadn’t caught him shadowing her on foot, had she, during his preliminary reconnaissance? But once she’d figured it out, she’d definitely taken more precautions, had slowed him down. He’d had to lie low longer than he’d expected, hadn’t had more than those few nights of fun chasing her in the truck, the entertainment of watching how jumpy she’d been ever since.
    He’d have to make tonight extra good to make up for it, that was all. There was no big, strong boyfriend to help her now. It was just going to be the two of them, him and his cute little Amy. His dream date.
    She’d had a good time with Billy-boy on Saturday, and he’d enjoyed the view he’d gotten of it from his spot right here by the fence. He’d used his night-vision goggles to make sure he hadn’t missed a thing, and he’d enjoyed the hell out of it. Bill had warmed her up pretty good for him, and now it was his turn.
    They always got complacent eventually, and Amy was no exception. They always doubted what they’d seen, what they’d felt. Women were so easily swayed. Face it, they were stupid. They were weak, and the strong preyed on the weak. That was the law of the jungle.
    He unzipped the pocket of the sweatshirt, felt for the thin, sticky latex of the surgical gloves, worked them onto his hands in the dark. His fingers found the reassuringly jagged edges of the zip ties, gave them a little pat. Two, and two extra, because he always brought extras. There was that planning again.
    A