Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

“Sandra…”

“Play with me, Jason. I’m your wife. It’s not too much to ask.”

He was going to do it. I could tell by the way he steeled his spine, squared his shoulders. He had been putting me off for months. Surely he realized at a certain point he’d have to acknowledge me somehow. It couldn’t all be about Ree.

“Dare,” he said at last.

“Kiss me,” I ordered. “For one minute.”

He hesitated. I thought he’d renege, and I braced myself for the rejection. But then he sighed, ever so softly. He leaned forward, puckered up, and touched his mouth to mine.

He was going to be chaste about it. I knew him well enough by then to anticipate. And I knew that if I tried to be aggressive or demanding, he would shut down. Jason never yelled. Jason never raised his hand in rage. He simply disappeared, someplace deep inside him where nothing I said or did seemed to reach him, until I could be standing right beside him, and I would still be alone.

My husband respected me. He treated me kindly. He showered me with compassion. He did his best to anticipate my every need.

Except when it came to sex. We had been together nearly a year now, and he had yet to lay a single hand on me. It was driving me crazy.

I didn’t open my mouth. I didn’t grab his shoulders, bury my fingers in his thick dark hair. I didn’t do anything that I longed to do. Instead, I fisted my hands at my sides, and ever so slowly, I kissed him back.

He gave me gentleness, so I returned his sweetness, my breath whispering across his closed lips. He gave me compassion, so I showered it upon the corner of his mouth, the full expanse of his bottom lip. He gave me respect, so I never once pushed the boundaries he had set. But I daresay I gave him the best damn kiss two closed-mouth people had ever shared.

When the minute was up, he drew back. But he was breathing harder now, and I could see something lurking in his eyes. Something dark, intense. It made me want to leap onto his lap, flatten him into the sofa, and fuck his brains out.

Instead, I whispered, “Truth or dare. Your turn. Ask me. Truth or dare.”

I could see the conflict. He wanted to say dare. He wanted me to touch him again. Or maybe take off my nice silky shirt. Or trail my hands across his hard chest.

“Truth,” he said huskily.

“Ask.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can’t help myself.”

“Sandy.” He closed his eyes, and for a moment, I could feel his pain.

“Truth or dare,” I demanded.

“Truth,” he nearly groaned.

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done? Come on. Have you lied? Stolen? Seduced your best friend’s baby sister? Killed anyone? Tell me, Jason. I want to know who you are. We’re married, for God’s sake. Surely you owe me that much.”

He looked at me funny. “Sandra…”

“No. No whining, no negotiating. Just answer the question. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes.”

“What?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, I’ve killed someone,” Jason said. “But that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Then my husband got off the sofa, took his paperback, and left me alone in the room.

Jason didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but he must have, because shortly after one A.M., a sound roused him from the love seat. He jerked upright, registering a distant banging. The noise seemed to be coming from outside the house. He stood, crossing to the front windows, where he parted the curtains one inch and peered out.

Two uniformed officers had taken the lids off his trash cans. They were now in the process of moving the white kitchen bags from the refuse containers to the trunk of their police cruiser.

Shit , he thought, and nearly opened the front door to yell at them to stop. Then caught himself.

Rookie mistake. He’d taken his trash out from long habit, and in doing so, had effectively turned it over to the police. He searched through his mind, trying to anticipate how much such a mistake might cost him. He couldn’t think of anything, so he finally relaxed, shoulders coming down, expelling all his pent-up breath in one giant sigh.

All right. So the police had seized his garbage. Now what?

Sergeant D.D. Warren, and her sidekick, Detective Miller, had returned to the house shortly after eight-thirty P.M. to execute the search warrant on his truck. He’d met them at the door, skimmed the warrant as was his right, then dutifully handed over the keys.

Then he’d pointedly shut and locked the front door, spending the rest of the time tucked inside with Ree. Let them stew on that, he thought. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about his truck. He just needed something to keep them occupied so they didn’t focus solely on his computer.

Speaking of which… He glanced at the clock. It was 1:52 A.M. Now or never, he decided, and headed quietly upstairs.

It pained him to wake Ree. She looked at him with bleary eyes, still groggy and disoriented from sleep, let alone the emotional toll of missing her mother and her cat. He had her sit up in bed, slipping her arms into her winter coat, producing boots for her bare feet. She didn’t protest, just leaned her head against his shoulder as he carried her downstairs, her blankie and Lil’ Bunny clutched in both hands.

He stopped by the door to grab a dark green duffel bag, tucking it over his shoulder. He positioned Ree and her blanket to shield the bag from prying eyes. Then he opened the door and carried both the bag and his daughter out to Sandy’s Volvo station wagon.

He could feel the eyes of the patrolman upon his back. No doubt the officer was now picking up a notebook and writing urgent notes: 1:56 A.M. , subject appears in front yard carrying sleeping child. 1:57 A.M. , subject approaches wife’s car…

Jason latched Ree into her booster seat, sliding the duffel bag unobtrusively onto the floor by her feet. Then he closed the back passenger door and headed straight for the unmarked police car.

He tapped on the driver’s-side window. The cop lowered the glass a notch. “I have to go to work,” Jason stated briskly. “Wrap up a few things before I take time off. You want the address or are you gonna stay here?”

He saw the officer debate his options. Watch the subject or watch the house? What were the officer’s orders?

“Late to be out with a child,” the officer observed, obviously stalling for time.

“Got kids, Officer? This won’t be the first time I’ve had to drag my daughter to the office. Good news is, she can sleep through anything.”

Minute Jason said those words, he wished he could call them back. ‘Course, it was too late, as he observed in the officer’s responding smirk. “Good to know,” the officer said, and proceeded to make a very long entry into his logbook.

Jason gave up, returning to the station wagon and firing it to life. As he drove down the street, he didn’t see the officer pulling out behind him. But then, around six blocks later, a police cruiser suddenly nosed out from a side street. His next handler, he supposed, and gave a silent salute to Boston’s finest.

The offices of the Boston Daily were like any other news media, which was to say it was a crazy, hectic bull pen of activity during the day, and still warranted a few dedicated souls even late at night. Stories were written, copy was edited, and pages were laid out even in the odd hours of the morning, perhaps even more so, because it was only after midnight that the place grew quiet enough for anyone to think.