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270 Halstead Avenue in Harrison was a white Victorian building. Mason walked there about twenty minutes after he had April away and hid the gun in a dumpster. He approached the house with his hands at his sides so that, if someone was watching him, they would see that he was unarmed. He would find a weapon if he needed one: shootings are full of them.
He stood in the doorway like an ordinary man, peering past the weave of the curtains and the reflections in the windows. He saw no suspicious movements inside, but it was the doorbell that caught his interest. The name Miller didn't ring a bell, but there was a coat of arms they had tried to cover up that was familiar. He had seen it before in Midtown, when he and April were looking for a notary's office.
He was announced by a peal o
