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The lock had been easy enough to break, and with Stan's crowbar jammed in far enough, it was just a matter of applying pressure. Up on the garden wall, Roger's view was a part of Langley he'd never seen. Golden hour was just peeking its head out from beyond the skyline, and the estate's gargoyles grew amber in the warm light.
Not too good at their jobs, Roger thought. He'd been one a while ago. Seen a lot of strange things from a Paris rooftop. For example, a bottom-heavy intruder in rags shoving open a third floor window. The difference was that today Roger kept his hold on the ledge. Neither gargoyle moved to dislodge their intruder with the flick of a tail or a claw.
His grey feet landed slowly on the plush carpet, silent. He knew nobody would be home, but after years of doing this it was habit. Always assume the wood will creak. It didn't creak now, and Roger was in at last. He had just one hour to indulge.
Meredith's husband, the dentist, was busy with the day's patients, and Meredith was busy preparing for the charity gala. One hour. Before shutting the window, Roger took a minute to lean forward on the sill, looking out. Langley was a quiet, glowing city from here. This is what she sees.
No time. He wanted to do everything, see everything, touch everything Meredith had before she could return. The duvet was expensive brocade under his fingers, and he wondered if Meredith had made the bed herself that morning. His fingers slipped under the duvet to the flat sheet, then more slowly to the fitted. Before he knew it, his hand was under the pillow he felt was Meredith's. Maybe she'd rise early in the day, leaving her husband to rest for an hour more. Maybe she'd make coffee and come back with a cup for him, dressed for her first meeting of the day. It was a 9 o'clock, according to the note in her beautiful scrawl on the page he'd seen. Meredith's day planner was lying open on the table during the gala rehearsal, Roger had just taken a short look. A perfect guide to her perfect life. Meredith would give her husband his coffee when he woke and they'd exchange a few words, but he would be the one to make the bed. She'd already be downstairs. Roger's hand retracted.
The dentist. His tilted his head, considering. He could make that work. Meredith was happily married, her husband must be the perfect match. Roger's eyes strayed from the bed, caught by the gleam of polished oak. He couldn't wait to open the heavy antique dresser. Why wait? It was within reach, and approaching closer. He drifted to the brass drawer pulls, then stopped. What did he think he was doing? He wasn't supposed to be here. This was all wrong, opening someone else's dresser. She would keep the good stuff on hangers in the closet.
Roger was right. Her garments were arranged by season, well-kept on velvet hangers with some delicates in bags. So many ways to be Meredith, all in one place. But which did he want to slip into? Meredith's signature scent had absorbed faintly into every piece, the seams had been pressed over and over against the shape of her torso, her shoulders. Roger inhaled jasmine, each garment passing by on matching hangers. After years of wear, her clothes had developed the likeness of Meredith herself. And Roger could, too. He suddenly felt shabby in his emergency blanket poncho, next to all of these fashionable pieces. The belt wasn't helping either, just holding the stiff fabric in where it wanted to stick out. He shed the improvised disguise, then turned and admired his new closet. The plastic hooks of the bungee cord belt knocked sharply on the hardwood floor, but Roger barely heard. He grabbed a hanging bag off of the rack. Shut the closet door with a click.
Clutching an open tube of Meredith's maroon lipstick, Roger heard the door slam.