1 Simon I check my green burner phone for the time. It''s now 8:51 p.m., nine minutes to nine. Nearly two hours since trick-or-treating ended and Grace Village plunged into darkness, the residents of this bedroom community hunkering down for the night. Police cruisers will be out tonight, but there are none currently on Lathrow Avenue, at least as best I can tell standing in Lauren''s foyer, looking through the peephole of her front door with emotion clouding my eyes. Not tears. I am not crying.

I thought it possible that tears would come, even likely, but they have not. Now I''m sure they won''t. Tears are for sadness, regret, remorse. I am not calm exactly, certainly not what I would describe as normal; far from that. A dull ringing fills my ears and the THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP of my pulse echoes through me, a bellowing bass drum no symphony orchestra could match. Still, my hand does not shake as I reach for the inside door handle, an ornate gold latch you''d expect to open a vault of princely treasures. But no jewels or riches beyond this door, only danger. I am not supposed to be here, inside Lauren''s house.

I turn one last time and look behind me in the foyer. Lauren''s body dangles from the second-floor landing, her toes no more than a few feet above the marble foyer floor. She is motionless, coming to rest facing me, her head lolled unnaturally to the right, resting on the knotted rope wrapped around her neck, her head so askew it looks as if it might detach and fall to the marbled floor. She is wearing a skintight cat costume, complete with makeup, painted whiskers, and button nose; even the nails on her fingers and toes are painted black. Halloween Barbie, if there is such a thing, and I''m sure there is. Rising from the noose, the rope strains taut against the ornate wrought iron railing on the second story, overlooking the open foyer. Watching her, no matter how glamorous her looks, how sexy her outfit, conjures the image of a butcher''s freezer, the slabs of beef hanging from large hooks in the ceiling. Happy Halloween, Lauren.

I take a step forward but my boot crunches on a shard of broken glass from the bowl of Halloween candy shattered in the foyer. Whatever the reason I had for stepping toward her-one last goodbye? Replacing the heel that fell off her left foot?-I think better of it and turn to the door. I pull down the latch and open the front door, the cool October air rushing into the space inside the hood over my head, which covers my face completely and blocks my peripheral vision. I forgot to check through the peephole again before opening the door. That was sloppy. This is not a night to be sloppy. I walk through the empty streets of the village in my Grim Reaper costume, plastic shopping bag clutched in my left hand, passing skeletons hanging from trees, tombstones planted in front yards, orange lights illuminating shrubbery, ghosts frowning at me through windows. My head buried inside this elongated hood, my height at five feet eleven, I could pass as a teenager trick-or-treating late (which wouldn''t fly, given the village''s strict curfew) or an adult leaving some kind of party (for which I can name no host or address).

I should walk with a natural stride, like I haven''t a care in the world, an anonymous man covered head to toe in a black robe and hood on the one night of the year that it wouldn''t seem odd. Still, I should have an answer at the ready should a police cruiser stop by. As a wise woman once told me: The best lies are the ones closest to the truth. Walking home , I will say if asked. Too much to drink. That will have to do. The drinking part isn''t true but hard to disprove. The walking home part is close enough.

I''m walking in that direction, at least. So on I walk through the square grid of the small village, reaching the park on the southeast end of town, crossing the diagonal path, passing some homeless people, swing sets, and jungle gyms, a pack of teenagers huddled on the hill with beers they try to conceal. I put one foot in front of the other and try to act normal and think about normal things. It''s been a long time since I''ve thought about normal things. I haven''t felt normal since May 13. I play the game of what-if. What if I hadn''t gone to get my haircut on May 13? What if the dean hadn''t called me to his office, delaying me? Ten, fifteen seconds'' difference, and I might never have seen her. I wouldn''t have known she''d come back.

But that doesn''t calm me, so I think about what happens next. My journal. My journal with the green cover, to match my green phone. I got rid of that journal, right? Burned it to a crisp, to a heap of ash in my fireplace. Right? I didn''t just dream that, did I? If the police ever got their hands on that green journal, it would be game, set, match. That''s not helping stress levels, either, so I try the language games I used as a kid to calm my nerves, to slow me down when I was freaking out, like how the word "fridge" has a "d" but "refrigerator" does not; how "tomb" is pronounced toom and "womb" is pronounced woom , but "bomb" is not pronounced boom ; how "rough" and "dough" and "cough" and "through" should rhyme but don''t. I don''t know why oddness and contradiction calm me, but they always have, maybe because of their familiarity, because I see so much of those traits in myself. Then I stop.

My legs suddenly, inexplicably no sturdier than rubber, exhaustion sweeping over me, my pulse ratcheting up again, vibrating in my throat. Only steps away from Harlem Avenue, only moments from crossing the town border, only a matter of feet from leaving Grace Village and crossing into its sister town Grace Park, where I live, a far bigger town. I manage to duck behind the equipment shed owned by the park district. I plop down on the ground, pull off my hood, remove the head mask I''m wearing, and rest my sweaty head against the brick wall. I fish around in my bag for the knife. It''s a large knife that we used to slice the Thanksgiving turkey when I was a kid. I thought I might need it tonight. I pull out my green phone and start typing: I''m sorry, Lauren.

I''m sorry for what I did and I''m sorry you didn''t love me. But I''m not sorry for loving you like nobody else could. I''m coming to you now. I hope you''ll accept me and let me love you in a way you wouldn''t in this world. When I''m done, I put the phone in my lap, next to the knife. I hold out my hand, palm down, and stare at it. It remains utterly still and steady. I take a breath and nod my head.

I can do this. I''m ready. Before Halloween May 13 2 Simon "You know what your problem is?" Anshu says to me, though I didn''t ask him. If we''re going through a list of my problems, we''ll be here all afternoon. "You don''t look the part," he says, without waiting for a prompt from me. "I don''t." I give myself a once-over, my button-down oxford and blue jeans. "What''s wrong with how I look?" "You dress like one of the students.

You''re supposed to be the professor." "What do you want, a tweed coat with patches? Should I carry a pipe, too?" I''m sitting in my office on the third floor of the law school with Professor Anshuman Bindra, who looks the part naturally, with his owlish face and trim beard, hair the consistency of a scrub brush, which manages to not move but look unkempt regardless. Anshu leans back in his chair. "Simon, my friend, you just got quoted in a U.S. Supreme Court opinion. It''s like the Supremes collectively leaned over from Washington to Chicago and whispered to the committee, ''Make this guy a full professor.'' You should be walking tall today.

You should be the new King of the Fourth Amendment. But instead, you show up looking like you''re going to a frat party." "It shouldn''t matter how I dress. It''s what I say, what I teach, what I write, that-" But he''s already making a mouth out of his hand, yada yada yada. "Now Reid, he looks the part. He wears a sport coat and dress pants every day." Reid Southern? That guy is to academia what Pauly Shore is to dramatic acting. He has parents with pull, and that''s it.

"He wears a sport coat because his stomach hangs over his belt," I say. "And he probably can''t fit into jeans." Anshu drops his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, and you run marathons, and half your students probably want to bone you, but Reid looks like a law professor. He acts like one. The guy listens to Mozart in his office. You listen to REM and N.W.

A. and Panic! at the Disco." "Okay, first of all," I say, leaning forward, "I do not and would not listen to Panic! at the Disco. And now it matters what music I listen to?" "It''s not one thing. It''s the whole package. The. grungy look, the music, the whole attitude. You don''t think appearances matter? I know they shouldn''t, but you know-" "No, they do, I know.

" But I''m not going to change for them. Why should I? There''s no dress code here. I''m twice the teacher Reid Southern is. His students hate him. I''ve read the reviews. And his scholarship is pedantic at best. He''s writing a.