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grinned.
    Inside were eight dollars.
    That’ll do it! That’ll put me over the top for Betty!
    “Thank you, kid,” he whispered. “Wherever you are.”
    With eight dollar bills in his pocket, the sheathed knife in his hand and the Playboy under one arm, he stepped into the hallway and headed for the master bedroom.
    That’s when he heard a thump and rumble.
    Familiar sounds, but he couldn’t quite…
    The garage door was opening!
    His heart jumped with fright.
    He rushed to the guest room and knelt beside one of the twin beds.
    A door thudded. Then another.
    The bed was too low. Just as well. They made great hiding places because adults never looked under them, but he always felt
     trapped under beds. Flat on his belly. The box springs pressing against his back. No room to turn. No way to get out fast.
     Under beds, he had to fight off panic. Especially after the night his mother was killed just above him and the blood kept
     dripping onto the toe of her slipper just inches from his face. It had been exciting but awful, and he had rarely hidden under
     beds after that.
    From downstairs came quiet sounds of voices.
    And footsteps.
    Albert got up. He tiptoed to the closet. Then he pushed back the sliding door, stepped inside the closet and slid the door
     shut.
    Wire hangers pinged together when he hit them with his head. To free a hand, he pushed the blade of the boy’s sheath knife
     under his belt. Then he reached out to the side. His fingers pushed against flimsy plastic. He edged his foot sideways. It
     stopped against a box.
    Better not try burrowing in, he thought. Too much other stuff.
    Even if he could manage to hide himself more deeply in the closet, it would only make getting out more difficult.
    And he might have to get out fast.
    More sounds of footsteps. Voices.
    One was a woman’s voice. He supposed it probably belonged to Mrs. Broxton, but he couldn’t be sure. After all, he’d only heard
     her speak a few words at the Safeway that morning. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, either.
    The man’s voice was smooth. He laughed at something.
    From the sounds, Albert supposed the man and woman were climbing the stairs.
    He knelt down to keep his head from knocking against empty hangers.
    Now they seemed to be coming up the hall. In a few more seconds, they would be entering the master bedroom.
    Wait till they’re in there, Albert thought, then get the hell outta this place.
    Or stay and try to watch them?
    That wouldn’t be very smart, he told himself.
    Might be worth the risk.
    He’d never actually watched anything like that. But he’d always wanted to.
    The bottom edge of his closet door lit up.
    What? This is the guest room! What’re they doing in here?
    On the other side of the closet door, there was a long silence. Then came a moan from the woman. “You don’t mind, do you?”
     she asked.
    “No, it’s fine,” said the man. “Who needs all that room, anyway?”
    “This might not be as comfortable, but I’ll feel so much better. I just wouldn’t feel quite right in there.”
    “Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t care which bed, I only care which woman.”
    There was another long silence. Albert wondered if they were kissing.
    “You’re my first Boy Scout widow,” the man said. They both laughed. “I always knew there was a lot to be said for campouts.”
    “Shush.”
    More silence.
    “I’ll be right back,” the woman said.
    “Going to get into something more comfortable, I presume?”
    She laughed softly. “How did you know?”
    “I’m psychic.”
    “I won’t be long.”
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    Albert heard her leave the room. Then he heard the man walking on the carpeted floor.
    Coming closer.
    He slid the knife out of its leather sheath.
    Closer.
    What’s he gonna do, hang up his clothes?
    The door slid open, flooding the closet with light.
    Albert crouched in the shadow of the man, who was holding a blue sports coat in one hand. As he reached for a