5. Guarantee

FIVE

Call me paranoid, but even if I'm not planning on leaving the house, I get out and check on my car every morning and every night to make sure that the windows are working right.

I've done that the last week and a half, ever since I brought it home from the garage. I keep expecting my poor baby to fail on me now after more than a decade of service, only breathing out a sigh of relief every time I start the car, reach for the power window, and it eases down again.

After that, I go back inside. I can't help myself. Maybe I feel jinxed, like pushing my car too much will only end with me sitting in that run-down mechanic shop again, sipping on a ginger ale while watching Judge Judy. That's partly true, I gotta admit, but mostly it's this strange sense I've been getting lately that, whenever I do leave my house, someone takes advantage of my absence to let themselves in.

I don't have any proof. Proof? When you're an anxious wreck like me, having conversations with a figment of your imagination, you don't expect something as solid as proof. I think that's why I keep pulling the note from the Watcher out, reading it again and again if only because it is something tangible I can hold.

There's someone out there watching me. They know enough about me that Will Burke was my husband, and to send me his bloody wedding ring. Even if I have no idea how this mysterious figure got their hands on that ring—though all signs point to the really fucking obvious—there's no denying that this message was sent specifically for me.

For Simone.

I'm trying to move on from that. Just like how I've been going out more than I have, returning to in-person shopping if only because it gets me out of the house—and because part of me is still defiant enough… and maybe even still a bit frightened—to stay where I know the Watcher can find me.

He wants to watch? Good luck. You gotta know where I am first…

Today I planned on sticking around the house. During my latest manic shopping binge, I got it in my head that I should paint the living room of my house. I e-mailed the landlord to see if I was allowed to, and I got a response back last night that said I could, so long as I pay to have it repainted in the event of me moving out.

I don't see that happening anytime soon. I like Merrill Grove. It reminds me of Baker, the small town a state over where I grew up for my formative years before my dad started bouncing our family around like we were a bunch of ping pong balls. When I first fled from Will, I almost wanted to return there. Only knowing that it would be the first place he searched kept me from going home; instead, I picked a town close enough like it that he'd never expect me to hide out in.

Of course, he found me anyway. And since he still won't leave me the fuck alone even after he died, there's no point in running anymore. He's stuck in my brain, after all. No matter where his body is now, if I leave Merrill Grove, he'll chase and he'll chase and he'll chase.

I've gotten used to the apparition following me around my house, bitching at me constantly like the real Will often did. It's so incredibly insane that it's kind of become commonplace. If it keeps up, I might have to go back to therapy like I did when I was a troubled kid, though how the hell do I explain that I'm seeing the ghost of my husband when no one else but me and the Watcher know for sure that he's gone?

No. If I ignore him, he'll eventually disappear. If I find happiness… if I finally get the damn happily-ever-after I was promised so many years ago… he might get the hint and realize that this was all his fault.

It's possible, though I have to admit it's far more likely that I won't get his nagging voice out of my head until I get closure about how he died.

Why he died.

And if it's all my fault…

He's not real. He's not. I'm seeing him, but that doesn't make him real. He's in my house. He rides next to me in my car.

He watches me from outside the house, making me insane with the idea that I might never escape him, not even in death.

‘Til death do you part…

Too bad my dead husband didn't get the memo.

On the plus side, he's been eerily quiet the last few days. I only thought I saw him out of the corner of my eye once or twice, then when I stood in front of my bedroom window, peeking up at the moon, staring out into the quiet cul de sac. I swore Will was taunting me from across the street, but when I lifted the window itself to poke my head out, getting a better look, there was nothing there.

There never is.

I'm not worried about my mind conjuring him now. It's bright out, the sun is shining, and the air is filled with the scent of flowers filtering to me from the Douglas's front garden. It's chaotic and unruly, but there's a method to the way the flowers—reds and yellows, whites and oranges—have been laid out.

I like it. I told Ruby that recently when she caught me inching closer to it, peering at all of the spring blooms.

She thought I was admiring her garden, and I was… but that's not all I was doing?—

"Didn't I tell you we have a guarantee?"

So lost in what I was thinking about—as usual—I didn't even realize that someone had approached me until a familiar male voice rips me out of my reverie.

My head snaps up, fingers instantly curving around my key fob in case I need to use the key itself as a weapon. As soon as I see who's behind me, I relax my fingers a fraction.

It's a guy, obviously. A couple of inches taller than my five-five, he has a broad if stocky build that could either be sculpted muscle or solid fat; I can't tell because he's wearing a full set of dark grey coveralls despite it being already pushing seventy degrees this morning. He has his brown hair cut short and slicked back. His eyes are a little darker, though there's a friendliness to them that puts me immediately at ease.

I focus on his face. At first glance, it's got a boyish to it. Soft cheeks and thin pink lips. There's a hard edge to his jaw, though, and a hint of a dare to the smile he's giving me as he strides confidently up my driveway.

He's cute. Almost handsome, but definitely someone I could see myself becoming attracted to.

He's also familiar in a way that sings to me, and it takes me a moment to remember where I've seen him lately—and why it makes sense that he would be teasingly talking about a guarantee after he clearly caught me checking out my car again.

"I know you. You gave me the ginger ale while I was waiting for my car to be looked at."

His smile says he's pleased that I recognize him. "That's right. And all of our jobs down at Frank's come with a guarantee. If it breaks again because of our work, we'll fix it for free. Since Frank hates it when we screw up, he makes sure we do the job right the first time. Your window should be fine."

My window should be, but?—

"Okay. That's fair. But what if one of your mechanics fixes one thing, then breaks another so that he can get me back in the shop to hit on me again?"

Holy shit. Where did that come from?

I'm not wrong. I've been thinking about that every time I come out here. I might play a little oblivious, but I can tell when a guy's into me. That doesn't stop me from falling for the wrong kind of man. I've done it a bunch of times, with Will only being the last one. I want to think I've learned from my mistakes, though, and if I'm going to get involved with a mechanic, it's not going to be the one who spent the entire time I was hanging around the shop trying to loom over me so he could stare down at my boobs.

However, there's my real lived experience as a woman, and then there's me blurting that out in front of one of his co-workers.

Who, with an amused look flashing in his eyes, doesn't seem to mind at all.

"Brendon's a little obvious, but he's a good guy." When I raise my eyebrows at him, he chuckles. "Okay. How about a professional? He won't fuck with a customer's vehicle because that would be fucking with Frank. I'm new in town. Even I know you don't fuck with Frank. Don't worry about Brendon."

"That's the guy who did my car, right?"

He nods.

"And who tried to to ask me out to dinner because he did such a good job and only charged me for parts, not labor?"

He winces.

Exactly.

When you've been as obsessed with keeping your baby in as good of shape as possible as I have, you spend a lot of time at either the dealer or a garage. The guys there see a pretty blonde and think she knows shit about her car, and maybe I can't fix it myself, but that doesn't mean I'll let them pull that kind of stunt with me.

And now this guy knows it.

He lifts his hand, ruffling the back of his hair. "Would dinner with one of us have been so bad?"

"You his wingman?" I tease, turning his question into one of my own. That was a little flirty-ish to me, and suddenly I'm not so sure we're talking about his buddy anymore. "You're as bad as Ruby."

His eyes flicker over to my neighbor's house. "Ruby. Yes. I know Ruby."

There's something in the way he says that. I take a moment, running our short conversation through my head, then remember something else he just told me.

"Wait. You said you're new in town? Oh. Duh." I gesture at his coveralls—and the name Jake embroidered in script. "You're Jake."

His eyes light up in surprise before he lets out another chuckle. "You've heard of me?"

I shrug. "Like I said. Ruby."

"Well, that's me sorted. But what about you?"

Oh. I just assumed he knew.

I hold out my hand. "Simone."

He takes it. His hand is warm, yet a little rough, and I figure that has to do with his line of work. His nails are immaculate, though, and I like that.

"Nice to meet you, Simone."

"You, too, Jake."

He lets go of my hand after a quick shake, then scratches the underside of his jaw. "Don't forget what I said about the guarantee. And if Bren bothers you again, let me know. I'll take care of it."

You know what? I actually believe him, too.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. You have a nice day, okay?"

I'll try.

Surprisingly,I was actually having a pretty great day after all. After I went back inside, I decided it was time to start painting. Hyperfocus can come in handy when it's on a project instead of something more detrimental to me—like shopping or even a person—and I had the whole living room taped off in no time.

The actual painting took a little longer, but I was determined to get it done in one day. So I threw my hair up in a ponytail, pulled on a tank top and shorts because I was already sweating, and got to work.

The thing about hyperfocusing is that it's all you can do. Nothing can stop you when you're in the middle of it. I think I took one bathroom break and had, like, three sips of water all day, but by the late afternoon, the entire living room was done and I'd only fucked up one spot.

I wanted to go over it again and fix it, but the fumes from the paint were starting to get to me. Realizing I never opened a window for ventilation because I was just too focused on getting the job done, I went to do that—and yelped when I found something waiting for me on the outer windowsill.

It's a pink rose. Not just the bloom this time or a few scattered petals like I've found in my house from time to time, but a full rose, including the stem.

I can't see if it has any thorns on it or leaves because a good chunk of the stems is covered in white.

It takes me a minute before it hits me why.

Someone has wrapped a note around the stem, then left the flower in a place I'd obviously find it.

I've seen flowers just like this before. I've gotten a note, though that was left in my mailbox. Is this from the same person? I don't know, and I can't figure out how he would've gotten it here without me seeing until I remember that hyperfocus makes me basically blind to everything but the task I'm working on.

For all I know, someone could've stood in front of the living room window and watched me all day and I'd have no fucking clue.

I'd like to think my neighbors would notice, but I'm the only one who's really home during the day. The Fields have work and school, the Millers do, too, and both of the Douglases are constantly pulling long shifts. I saw my new neighbor head out to the garage earlier, too… so maybe someone could've been spying on me.

But why?

I don't know, but before I can think better of it, I rush outside in my bare feet and snatch the rose off of the sill.

If there are any thorns, I don't feel them through the scrap of paper wrapped around it. With trembling fingers, I start to unroll it, sighing softly when I see that whoever put this rose here did take the time to hack off the thorns.

Then I unfold the scrap, reading the same blocky print and scrawled signature and know exactly who it was.

The Watcher.