The Neighbor

  Jason needed to be arrested. Because then Wayne Reynolds could finally sleep at night. God knows in the past few days he’d been frantically purging his personal computer as well as his Treo. Which was ironic, because he of all people knew he’d never get the electronic devices one hundred percent clear. He should buy a new hard drive for his computer, and “lose” his Treo, preferably while running over it with his lawn mower. Or maybe he could flatten it with his car? Toss it into the harbor?

  It was funny, outsiders always assumed law enforcement officers had an advantage—they worked in the system, meaning they knew exactly what sort of misstep might trip a guy up. Except that was the problem. Wayne of all people knew how hard it was to cover one’s electronic tracks, and, being fully aware of such things, he understood just how hard his own actions would be scrutinized under a microscope.

  He’d spent three months going on walks with Sandra Jones, nothing less, nothing more, but if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself labeled as her lover and placed on administrative leave, a subject of internal investigation. Especially if the forensic computer expert “lost” his Treo, or “replaced” his home computer. That sort of thing simply wasn’t going to play.

  Which made him wonder why the BPD hadn’t cracked open the Jones computer yet. They’d had it nearly twenty-four hours. Figure five to six hours to make a forensically sound copy, then getting EnCase up and running …

  One to two more days, he figured, and sighed. He didn’t think his nerves could take one to two more days.

  Let alone what such a long period of time might mean for Sandy.

  He tried not to think about it. The cases he’d worked on before, the crime-scene photos he often viewed in his line of work. Suffocation? Stabbing? Single gunshot wound to the head?

  He had tried to warn Sandy: She never should have gone away on the February vacation.

  Wayne sighed heavily. Consulted the clock again. Decided to stay a little later at the crime lab, do a bit more work. Except then his Treo buzzed. He looked down, to find a message from his sister’s e-mail address.

  He frowned, clicked open the message.

  Five forty-five P.M. Wayne read his nephew’s startling confession.

  And started to sweat in earnest.

  Six P.M. Maxwell Black was sitting at a white linen-covered table in the corner of the dining room at the Ritz. His duck had just arrived, prepared with wild berry compote, and he was savoring a particularly fine Oregon Pinot Noir. Good food, fine wine, excellent service. He should be a happy camper.

  Except he wasn’t. After his conversation with the detectives, the judge had returned to his hotel and immediately called his law clerk to have him do some legal research on Max’s behalf. Unfortunately, the case law unearthed by his clerk did not sound promising.

  Most family courts—and Massachusetts was no exception—deferred to the birth parents as the primary caretakers in a child custody dispute. Naturally, grandparents did not start the process with any guaranteed rights, with the courts accepting the parents’ decision in the matter.

  Max had assumed, however, that Sandra’s disappearance—and Jason’s resulting position as a viable suspect in his wife’s disappearance—might sway the court in his favor. Furthermore, Max was confident that Jason was not Clarissa’s biological father. Hence, with Sandra gone, Max himself was now Clarissa’s closest living relative. And surely that would count for something.

  But no. Leave it to the state that had legalized gay marriage to accept in loco parentis, or the person that had served in the place of the parent, as the proper legal guardian. Which put Max back in the position of having to prove that Jason posed an immediate threat to Clarissa in order to successfully challenge the current custodial arrangement. Take it from a judge, those standards were nearly impossible to prove.

  Max needed Sandy’s body to be found. He needed Jason to be arrested. Then the state would take Clarissa into custody and he could argue that as her biological grandfather it would be in the child’s best interest to live with him. That should work.

  Except he had no idea how long it might take to find Sandra’s body. Frankly he’d driven by that harbor four times already and as far as he could tell, Jason Jones could’ve dumped Sandy’s body just about anywhere. It could take weeks, if not months, if not years.

  It was enough to make him consider filing a case against Jason in civil court, where the burden of proof was lower. Except even in civil court, it was hard to proceed without a dead body. No corpse meant Sandra Jones might really have run off with the gardener, which meant she might really be alive and well in Mexico.

  It all came back to dead bodies.

  Max needed one.

  Then it occurred to him. Yes, he needed a dead body. But did it necessarily have to be Sandra’s?

  Seven forty-five P.M. Aidan Brewster stood at the Laundromat, folding the last load of laundry. In front of him were four stacks of white T-shirts, two stacks of blue jeans, and half a dozen smaller piles of white briefs and blue-banded athletic socks. He’d started at six P.M., after his PO had graciously picked him up from his reporter-infested property and spirited him away. Colleen had offered to take him to a hotel for the night, to let things calm down. Instead, he’d asked her to drop him off at a suburban Laundromat, someplace far away from South Boston, where the reporters would have no reason to look for him and a man could bleach his tighty whities in peace.

  He could tell Colleen had been uncomfortable with the request. Or maybe it had been the trash bag after trash bag of dirty laundry he’d loaded into the trunk of her car, while three cameramen had clicked away from across the street. At least when Colleen had pulled away, the photographers had abandoned their posts, as well. No use staking out a house when you knew the target wasn’t there.

  “What happened to your head?” Colleen had asked as she drove down the street.

  “Kitchen fire. Left a paper plate too near a burner. Embers floated up and caught my hair on fire, but I was too busy dumping flour on the stove to notice.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “You doing okay, Aidan?”

  “I lost my job. I burned my head. I got my face on the evening news. No fucking way, but thanks for asking.”

  “Aidan …”

  He stared at her, daring her to say it. She was sorry. What a shame. Things’ll get better. Hold tight.

  Pick a platitude, any platitude. The sayings were all bullshit. And he and Colleen both knew it.

  She drove him the rest of the way in silence, biggest favor she ever did him.

  Now he finished folding his towels, sheets, various coverlets, even three doilies. If it was a textile and it had been in his apartment, he’d washed it with Clorox color-safe bleach.

  Let the police hash over that one. Let them hate him.

  After this, he planned on returning to his apartment and packing up everything he owned. He was placing his entire collection of worldly possessions into four black trash bags, and he was bolting into the wind. That was it. Show over. He was done. Let his PO chase him. Let the police go apeshit looking for another registered sex offender.

  He’d followed the rules, and look where it got him: The police were screwing him; his former coworkers had tried to jump him; and his neighbor, Jason Jones, just plain scared him. Then there were the reporters … Aidan wanted out. So long. See you. Bye-bye.

  Which didn’t explain why he remained here, sitting on the floor of a grungy Laundromat, snapping his green elastic band and clutching a blue ballpoint pen. He’d been staring at the blank piece of notebook paper for three minutes already. He finally wrote:

  Dear Rachel:

  I’m an ass. It’s all my fault You should hate me.

  He paused. Chewed on the end of the pen again. Snapped the band.

  Thanks for sending me the letters. Maybe you hate them. Maybe you couldn’t stand to see them anymore. Guess I can’t blame you.

  He crossed out words. Tried again. Crossed out more.

&
nbsp; I love you.

  I loved you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.

  I won’t bother you again.

  Unless, he thought. But he didn’t write it. He forcefully kept himself from writing it. If she’d wanted to see him, she could’ve done it by now. So take the hint, Aidan, old boy. She didn’t love you. She doesn’t love you. You went to prison for nothing, you pathetic, stupid, miserable sack of shit….

  He picked up the pen again.

  Please don’t hurt yourself.

  Then, almost as an afterthought:

  And don’t let Jerry hurt you either. You deserve better. You really, really do.

  Sorry I fucked everything up. Have a nice life.

  Aidan

  He set down the pen. Reread the letter. Debated tearing it to shreds and attempting another bonfire. Held it instead. He wouldn’t send the letter. In group, the exercise was simply to write the note. Teach him empathy and remorse. Which he guess he felt, because his chest was tight, and it was hard to breathe, and he didn’t want to be sitting in the middle of a seedy Laundromat anymore. He wanted to be back in his apartment, curled up with blankets over his head. Someplace he could get lost in the dark and not think about that winter and how good her skin had felt against his, or how much of both of their lives he had destroyed.

  God help him, he still loved her. He did. She was the only good thing that had ever happened to him, and she had been his step sister and he was the worst kind of monster in the world and maybe the guys at the shop should beat the snot out of him. Maybe that was the only solution for a jerkoff like him. He was a pervert. No better than Wendell the psychotic flasher. He should be destroyed.

  Except, like any pervert, he didn’t really want to die. He just wanted to get through the night and maybe the next day.

  So he gathered up his laundry and hailed a cab.

  “Home, James,” he told the driver.

  Then, sitting in the back seat of the taxi, he tore the letter into tiny, tiny bits, and flung them out the window, watching the night wind carry them away.

  Nine-oh-five P.M., Jason finally had Ree down for the night. It hadn’t been easy. The growing media camp had kept them housebound for most of the day, and Ree was punchy from lack of fresh air and exercise. Then, after dinner, the first of the klieg lights had powered on, their entire house now lit up bright enough to be viewed from outer space.

  Ree had complained about the spotlights. She had whined about the noise. She had demanded that he make the reporters go away, and then, when that hadn’t done the trick, she had stomped her foot and demanded that he take her to find her mother right now.

  In response, he offered to color with her. Or maybe they could work on origami. Perhaps a stimulating game of checkers.

  He didn’t blame her for scowling at him and storming around the house. He wanted the reporters to go away, too. He’d like their old life to resume anytime now, thank you very much.

  He’d read an entire fairy novel to his daughter, all one hundred pages from beginning to end. His throat hurt, he’d lost command of the English language, but his daughter was finally asleep.

  Which left him alone in the family room, blinds and curtains tightly drawn, trying to figure out what to do next. Sandra remained missing. Maxwell had a court-ordered visit with Ree. And Jason was still the primary suspect in his pregnant wife’s disappearance.

  He had hoped, in his own way, that his wife had run off with a lover. He hadn’t really believed it, but he had hoped, because given all the options, that one kept Sandy safe and sound. And maybe one day she’d change her mind and return to him. He’d take her back. For Ree’s sake, for his own. He knew he was not a perfect husband, he knew he had made a terrible mistake during the family vacation. If she’d needed to punish him for that, he could take it.

  But now, as day three closed and the hours dragged by, he was forced to contemplate other options. That his wife hadn’t run off. That something terrible had happened, right here, in his own home, and by some miracle, Ree had survived it. Maybe Ethan Hastings had grown frustrated with his unrequited love. Maybe Maxwell had finally found them and abducted Sandy as a ploy to gain his granddaughter. Or maybe Sandra had another lover, this mysterious computer expert, who’d grown tired of waiting for her to leave Jason.

  She’d been pregnant. His baby? Someone else’s? Had that been what triggered this whole thing? Maybe, with Ethan Hastings’s help, she had figured out exactly who he was, and she had recoiled at the prospect of bearing a monster’s child. He couldn’t really blame her. He should be terrified at the thought of reproducing as well.

  Except he wasn’t. He had wanted … He had hoped …

  If they had ever had that moment, the one where Sandy nervously confessed they were expecting a baby together, he would’ve been touched, awed, humbled. He would have been eternally grateful.

  But they never got that moment. His wife was gone, and he was left with the ghost of what might have been.

  As well as the specter of impending criminal arrest.

  He would take his daughter and run. Only thing that could be done, because sooner or later, Sergeant Warren was going to appear on his front porch with an arrest warrant, and a family court officer. He’d go to prison. Worse, Ree would go to foster care.

  He could not let that happen. Not for his sake and not for his daughter’s.

  He headed for the attic.

  The access panel was in the closet of the master bedroom. He grabbed the handle in the ceiling, and pulled down the rickety folding stairs. Then he clicked on a flashlight and headed up into the pitch black gloom.

  The attic space was only three feet tall, meant for storage, not comfort. He crawled along the plywood floor, shuffling around boxes of Christmas decorations until he reached the far corner. He counted two rafters over to the left, then shoved aside the exposed insulation and reached in for the flat metal box.

  He pulled it out, thinking it felt lighter than he remembered. He set the flashlight down on the floor, raised the lid….

  The metal box was empty. Cash, IDs, all gone. Cleared out.

  Police? Sandy? Someone else? He couldn’t understand it. He’d never told anyone about his emergency escape kit. It was his little secret, one that kept him from having to bolt awake screaming every night. He was not trapped. He had an escape plan. He always had an escape plan.

  And then, while his mind was still frantically trying to process what had happened to him, how it could have possibly happened to him, he became aware of something else. A noise, not far below him.

  The creak of a floorboard.

  Coming from his daughter’s room.

  | CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE |

  As family vacations go, Jason’s choice of hotel shocked me. I had expected some moderately priced, kid-friendly establishment Instead, we arrived at a five-star getaway resort, complete with a full-service spa and yawning indoor pool A bellhop in a red coat with gold-braid trim led us up to the very top floor, which could only be accessed by inserting the room key into the elevator key pad. Then, he escorted us to a two-bedroom corner suite.

  The first room contained a king-sized bed with sumptuous white bedding and enough richly brocaded pillows to furnish a harem. Our view overlooked Boston Harbor The bathroom featured wall-to-wall rose-colored marble.

  In the adjacent sitting area, we discovered a sleeper sofa, two low-slung camel-colored chairs, and the world’s largest flat-screen TV. When Jason announced that this would be Ree’s room, her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. So did mine.

  “I love it!” Ree squealed, and immediately went to work disgorging her overstuffed suitcase into her deluxe chamber In five seconds or less, the room was covered in bright pink princess blankets, half a dozen Barbies, and, of course, Lil’ Bunny, given the perch of honor in the middle of the sofa. “Can we watch a movie?”

  “Later. First, I thought we’d put on fancy clothes and I would escort my two favorite ladies to dinner.”

  Ree’s scre
am of delight threatened to shatter the bank of windows. I continued to regard my husband with shell-shocked surprise. “But I didn’t bring anything fancy … I wasn’t expecting …”

  “I took the liberty of throwing in a dress and your boots.”

  My eyes went wider, but Jason maintained his inscrutable features. He was up to something. I just knew it. And for a moment, Wayne’s warning came back to me. Maybe Jason knew what I’d been doing. He’d guessed that I’d been tracking his online activities and he was … wining and dining me to death? Spa-ing me into submission at a sumptuous resort?

  I retreated to our half of the suite, where I put on the shimmering blue dress Jason had packed for me, as well as knee-high black leather boots. I hadn’t worn this dress for Wayne yet. I wondered if Jason had known that, and I felt uneasy all over again.

  Then Ree came barreling into the room, spinning around in a cranberry-colored dress sprinkled with embroidered flowers and finished with a giant looping bow in the back. “Mommy, do my hair. Hair time, Mommy. I want to look fabulous!”

  So I fashioned Ree’s hair into a bun on top of her head, with curly wisps springing around her face. And I spritzed and styled my own golden curls, even finding some makeup packed away by my clever husband for our family getaway. I did eyes, cheeks, and lip gloss for me. Lip gloss only for Ree, who then pouted because she personally believed the more makeup you wore, the more “fabulous” you were bound to be.

  Jason appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. He was wearing dark slacks I’d never seen before, with a deep plum-colored shirt and a dark flecked sports jacket. No tie. The top two buttons of his sharply pressed shirt were undone, showing off the strong column of his throat. And I felt a stirring then, low in my belly, that I had not felt in the past four months.