“Well, well, what do we have here?” he spoke to the face in the mirror.

With the glue and other schmutz off, a full head of blond hair was revealed. Long and wavy blond curls.

“Mr. Soneji? Mr. Chips? Is that you, fella?”

Not a bad-looking sort, actually. Good prospects? On a roll, maybe? Clearly on a roll, yes. And nothing at all like Chips. Nothing like our Mr. Soneji!

Away came the thick mustache that Gary Soneji had worn since the day he'd arrived to interview at the Washington Day School. Then the contact lenses were removed. His eyes changed from green back to chestnut brown. Gary Soneji held the dwindling candle up to the dingy, cracked bathroom mirror. He rubbed one corner of the glass clean with the sleeve of his jacket.

“There. Just look at you. Look at you now. Genius is in the details, right?”

That insipid nerd from the private school was almost completely eradicated. The wimp and the do-gooder. Mr. Chips was dead and gone forever.

What a wondrous farce it had been. What a daring plan of action, and how well executed. A shame no one would ever know what had really happened. But whom could he tell?

Gary Soneji left the farmhouse around 11:30 P.m., fight on his schedule. He walked to a detached garage that was north of the house.

In a special place in the garage, very special, he hid five thousand dollars from his savings, his secret cache, money he'd stolen over the years. That was part of the plan, too. Long-range thinking.

Then he headed down to the barn, and his car. Once he was inside the barn, he checked on the kids again. So far, so great.