Chapter Nine
Lindsey
"Hi," chirped the beady eyed, gray-haired lady standing on my front porch, beaming. "I just want to welcome you to the neighborhood. I'm Shirley Gibbons."
"Oh." Momentarily taken aback by the itty bitty woman with the covered cake in her hands, I blinked. "That's so nice of you. I'm Lindsey."
"I made a chocolate cake." Shirley's voice dropped in what I took to be a conspiratorial whisper. "Chocolate is so good when you get your monthlies."
"Uh."
She appeared sweet, kind, and most likely lonely. I dismissed the second comment as harmless and opened my door wider. "Will you come in, Shirley? I can make coffee."
"How lovely."
She marched into my house, looking at the mess of unpacked boxes with an assessing eye. Thank God Brody felt well enough to go back to work and had a coworker give him a ride. I'd little doubt seeing him here in all his stitched glory would send Shirley into a gossip laden tither.
"Where did the Pattersons go?" she inquired, making her unerring way into the kitchen.
"Retired to Florida," I replied, following her. "They're friends of my parents."
"Oh, how nice for you, my dear. Are you just renting?"
I started the coffee while thinking her a bit too nosey for my liking, but I decided to humor her. I'd also no doubt what I tell her will make the neighborhood rounds by nightfall. "Renting with the first option to buy."
Shirley set the cake in the middle of the table and sat. "You'll just love it here," she said in that mysterious whisper. "Such nice people around the neighborhood."
I stood while the coffee percolated, and Shirley exclaimed over the residents' fine qualities. Then, just as I poured for us both and sat, her true reason for bringing me cake came to light.
"I should warn you about your neighbor," Shirley whispered, her eyes round.
"Which one?"
Jacking her forefinger toward Brody's house, she went on. "That one. He's a bad one, dear. Never talks to anyone, has people coming and going at all hours." Her whisper lowered until I barely heard her. "He's a druggie. Sells it, too."
I controlled my eye roll. "I haven't noticed that."
"You will, dear, you will. The police have been all over his house." She sipped her coffee, her wide eyes meeting mine over its rim. "And the fires. Good gosh, that's terrible. I'm sure there's a gang war going on. And on our street, too."
As I'd only add fuel to the mix, I didn't tell Shirley the truth. That a drug dealer had targeted Brody but not because he was the competition. "Those were accidents," I said. "Just bad luck."
"No, no." She shook her head emphatically. "Mrs. Jenson saw a strange car right before the fires. She told me so."
"I won't dispute that," I replied, drinking my coffee and wondering how long I'd be catering to her neighborhood gossip. I've got work to do, and this confounded headache I've got is already screwing up my writing .
"That man is wanted by the police," she went on. "And the FBI. Just you watch, he'll be arrested."
"For what?"
Shirley's lips formed the word before her breathy hiss spoke it. "Murder."
I blinked. "Who'd he kill?"
"His wife."
"Oh, no," I protested with a half-laugh. "He's too nice to have killed anyone."
"That's what they said about Ted Bundy," she intoned. "And Jeffrey Dahmer."
I hesitated, sipping my coffee. That's impossible. Brody is no murderer. If he was, he'd be in prison. But what did I actually know about my neighbor, Brody? Could she be right? Did he lie through his teeth about Austin Rivers? Did he kill his wife and is now hiding behind a friendly, kind, fa?ade? Shirley was right about Bundy and Dahmer. Both seemed like nice, young men to all who knew them.
Until they found the bodies.
"I don't believe that," I said, my voice unsure.
"Believe it. Stay away from him, Lindsey. He's trouble, and he's dangerous."
"How do you know?" I asked. "That he killed his wife?"
"Mrs. Jenson said she recognized him from a newspaper article." Shirley nodded with emphasis. "From another state. From before he came here and bought that house."
I absently rubbed my chest. The scar there from my past life in California. The life I'd run from. "That's not a lot to base an accusation on," I said slowly.
"He never got to trial," Shirley whispered. "They say he fled justice."
"Then I'm sure justice will find him." I sounded unconvincing even to myself.
"Just stay away from him, Lindsey. I'm telling you for your own good."
"Thank you."
Having delivered her dire warning, Shirley chatted while I listened, talking of church, neighborhood barbeques, the kids next door. I drank coffee until the need to pee nearly burst my bladder, and she finally stood. I walked her to the door, the uneasiness she planted in my mind working its way into me like a porcupine's quill.
"I'd sure love to see you in church on Sunday," she said gaily, waving as she walked down my drive.
"Not bloody likely," I muttered under my breath as I smiled and waved goodbye.
Once I'd shut the door, I dashed into the bathroom and barely made it in time.
***
Shirley's whispered accusations followed me through the rest of the day. Into the cab whose driver took me to the car rental agency. It haunted me as I filled out forms, showed my drivers license, accepted the key to the new crimson Ford I'd be driving for a while. The car smelled new, had all the right toys to keep me happy.
Except I wasn't.
I liked Brody. I'd begun to trust him when I seldom trusted anyone. Did I misplace that liking? That trust? Shit, I'd only met him a few days ago. Didn't he say he'd grieved? Had his soul wounded? Did he murder the woman he'd loved? I gripped the steering wheel, my jaw clenched, my worries and thoughts squirreling through my mind.
"Maybe I should just tell him to go fuck himself," I muttered. "Stay away from him. I've got enough troubles of my own."
In parking the Ford in my driveway, I noticed the burned wreckage of Brody's truck was gone. Only the blackened scar on the cement showed where it had been. Makes sense he'd call to have it taken away. Make room for his new ride when he bought it. I locked the Ford with its fabulous smart key and entered my house.
In depression, despairing, I stared at the mess that represented my life. I sat on the couch where I'd nursed Brody after Rivers and his friend cut him with the switchblade, staring at the half unpacked boxes. The decision to stay was now classified under the second guessing stage. Should I pack up and leave? Take my insurance money, buy the best car I could get with it, and blow this town?
"I like him," I said into the silent room. "I know he likes me. Who am I to judge him without asking his side first?"
Leaning against the sofa's back, I again rubbed the scar under my shirt. Hadn't I seen enough violence in my twenty-four years? In staying here, am I inviting more? From my stalker, possibly. From Brody?
I frowned. My instincts for people are pretty damn sharp. Brody never gave off I'm a murderer type vibes. He'd been condemned by the neighborhood by an article and a picture from some out of state newspaper. Where's the article now? Can Mrs. Jenson provide it? Would she have thrown away the only evidence that Brody killed his wife? The only evidence the neighbors convicted him on?
"Bullshit," I snapped, standing up. "If a court of law can't convict him, who are they to judge?"
I returned to my office to work, my doubts and worries still hovering like a black storm cloud. Ignoring them as best I could, I focused on my work researching for an article I was writing. When my cell buzzed, absorbed, I answered it without thinking about it or looking at the caller.
"Hello?"
"Bitch."
The word hissed through the cell signals and towers and into my ear. I stiffened, my blood turning to ice in an instant. I recognized that voice. I knew it as well as I knew my own. We'd loved each other once. Shared laughs. Shared tears. And the love of a man.
"How'd you get this number?" I snapped.
"I know everything, honey. Where you live. Your cell number. I've been watching you."
I stood up from my desk to pace, restless, scared, and also angry. "You've got no right to hassle me," I snarled.
"I have every right. He died because of you, bitch. And I'll kill you for it."
"He killed himself , you stupid twat," I screamed into my phone. "You know damn well what he did. You saw it, day after day. I cried in your arms. You took me to the fucking hospital, remember?"
"He loved you. You betrayed him. He killed himself because of what you did. Not anything else. And I'll kill you for it."
"Come on," I grated, staring out my office window, my heart hammering in my chest. "Bring it on, sweetheart. You come into my house, you attack me in any way, and I'll kill you. Got that? I'll fucking kill you. I'm armed, baby, all the way. I'm not running any more. Let's end this."
The click of a disconnection answered me.
Breathing hard, I dropped my cell to my desk and paced. Fuck, dammit, fuck, fuck, shit, this is all bullshit. My nerves strung as taut as guitar strings, I forgot all about my work and stalked into the TV room. From there, I paced again, swearing under my breath, half-expecting my enemy to break through my door at any moment.
I checked all my guns. Chambered rounds. Took the safeties off. Replaced them within their hiding spots. No matter where I was in the house, I stood within a few feet of a gun. Grab, aim, and fire. Bam! Dead as dogshit. Bring it on, baby. I'm ready.
Hours passed. I calmed when nothing happened. I drank cold water from the sink, wiped my sweaty face on a towel. The air conditioning repair dude should be coming by any day now. Brody had told me, as he kissed my cheek that morning, he'd be working late. Catching up on paperwork. Can't hand that off to a peon.
Why did I need Brody so badly as I did in those hours?
When dusk deepened, I closed curtains and turned on only a few dim lights. Enough illumination so I didn't trip over boxes. Not hungry, I forewent dinner and watched the dark street outside. Kids walked some mutt on a leash past my house. House lights burned in windows. Cars drove by without stopping.
Turning away from the window, I went to the bathroom to douse my face in cold water. Refreshed to a small degree, I dried myself and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My skin stood out in pale contrast to my hair. Dark circles pouched under my eyes as though I hadn't been sleeping. Well, I hadn't been, truth be told.
I swiped my hair back from my face and left the bathroom. Thinking I should eat despite my lack of appetite, I headed for the kitchen.
A man stood in front of my sink. The guy who'd cut Brody to pieces. Austin's friend.
Shocked, I halted, instinctively realizing he stood between me and my nearest gun.
"Hiya, Lindsey," he said.
He brought his hand from his pocket, a dark object held within it. "Sorry, baby," he went on. "I gotta take you."
Spinning, I bolted for the door.
He fired.
Electrical voltage from his Taser shot through me. Excruciating pain lashed through my entire body. My mind scattered. My thoughts disconnected like wisps of cloud. I know I fell, but I had no knowledge of where my arms, legs, or my face were. Unable to move, to think, to fight, I knew he stepped toward me.
"Your boyfriend will give up the goods," he commented, lifting me. "If he wants you back, that is."