White Lies by Jeremy Bates Page B

he felt calmer, more in control.
    In the kitchen, he put the kettle on for a cup of instant coffee. While he waited for the water to boil, he told himself he was overreacting. A CSI team wasn’t going to comb over Katrina’s house. This was Leavenworth, not Miami. And it wasn’t like he’d killed anyone. He’d just looked in a goddamn window. But it wasn’t as simple as that, and he knew it. He was a fucking Peeping Tom. That might not be as bad as being a rapist, or a pedophile, but the stigma would be almost as ugly. Like those guys who used cameras to look up women’s skirts. Pathetic. Sick. Sleazy. Desperate. He’d lose his job, that was for sure. He was a teacher. Teachers, like politicians, weren’t allowed to do any wrong. Especially not a wrong like this. Not in the eyes of protective parents, anyhow. In fact, he’d be lucky if he wasn’t chased from town by an angry mob of moms and dads wielding pitchforks and burning torches. Would he make the local papers? Surely. He could imagine the headlines: “Local Teacher Caught Peeping on Coworker” or “Nightcrawler Busted!”
    A whistling. The water was ready. Zach grabbed a mug with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it from the cupboard, added a spoonful of Nescafe coffee crystals, then poured in the steaming water. He sat down with the mug at the table and replayed everything that had happened, trying to remember Katrina’s exact reaction. A curious expression, like she’d expected to see a raccoon, or maybe a deer. Her eyes widening when she saw a man in black instead. Then the scream. He didn’t think she’d cried out a second time, but he couldn’t he sure. The memories right before he’dbeen caught were already starting to form into one indistinguishable haze. More important, however, was whether or not there had been any hint of recognition in her eyes.
    He didn’t know. It had all happened too fast. He shook his head.
    How the fuck had he let himself get caught up in this?
    Katrina. It was her fault. Not directly, of course. She didn’t put up pink lights in that front bay window of hers, dress in heels and a corset and not much else, and tap the glass to solicit passing neighbors. But she did kick him out of her car, which got him pissed enough to start a vendetta against her, which led him to check out her house.
    No, he couldn’t blame her.
Man up, Zach
, he thought.
This is your doing, yours alone
. Yes it was, and somehow he would have to get himself out of it. He began going over his story in case Katrina had, in fact, recognized him. He’d come home from work, had dinner, had a Scotch and soda. This was all true—though he wouldn’t tell the cops just how strong the highball had been, or how many he’d had, for that matter. Then he’d—what? Stayed in and watched television? Sure. Why not? Simple was best.
    Zach sat in silence, staring into his black coffee, waiting for a knock at the door.

Chapter 7
    Someone was banging on Katrina’s front door.
    She was in the bathroom, a statue standing in the tub, like a naked woman who’d been petrified after glimpsing Medusa’s face. Although fear had frozen her body, her thoughts were liquid fire, racing through her head. Who the hell was knocking? Couldn’t be her neighbors. They were so far away they wouldn’t have heard a gunshot, let alone a scream. The intruder? Crazy. Why would he be banging on her door? Did he want to talk? Explain what he was doing?
Excuse me, ma’am, I was just getting a few cheap thrills. Didn’t mean to alarm you. Didn’t mean to get caught either. So how about we just put this embarrassing little misunderstanding behind us? Whaddya say?
Was there time to call the police? Yes—the police. She had to call the police. Right away. That broke her paralysis, got her moving. She stepped out of the tub and yanked on her robe.
    The pounding at the