Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

Just for her, I half tuck my porn magazines underneath my mattress, where she’s sure to find them. I figure it makes her feel better to know that her “young man” renter is catching up on adult titty magazines. Otherwise, she might worry about me, and I don’t want that.

Maybe I could’ve used a mother growing up. Maybe that would’ve helped me. I don’t know.

Now, I lead Colleen into my little slice of paradise. She peruses the tiny kitchenette, the sparse sitting area with a pink floral love seat graciously supplied by Mrs. H. Colleen spends about sixty seconds in the main room, then moves on to the bedroom. I watch her crinkle her nose as she enters the room, and it reminds me that it’s been a while since I washed the sheets.

Well shit , I think. Can’t do anything about that now. Fresh laundering of bedding will be interpreted as a sign of guilt for sure.

Colleen wanders back into the family room, takes a seat on the pink sofa. A doily scratches her behind the neck. She straightens for a minute, stares at the crocheted Kleenex, then shrugs and leans back.

“Whatch’ya been up to, Aidan?”

“Work, walking, support group.” I shrug, remain standing. I can’t help myself. I’m too antsy to sit. I snap the green rubber band on my wrist. Colleen watches me do it, but doesn’t say anything.

“How’s the job?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Got any new friends, new hobbies?”

“Nope.”

“Catch any movies lately?”

“Nope.”

“Check any books out at the library?”

“Nope.”

She cocks her head to the side. “How about attending any neighborhood barbecues?”

“In March?”

She grins at me. “Sounds like your life is quieter than a church mouse’s.”

“Oh, it is,” I assure her. “It really, really is.”

She finally cuts to the chase, leaning forward, away from the doily, and planting her elbows on her knees. “I heard there was some excitement in the neighborhood.”

“I saw the cops,” I tell her. “Going door to door this morning.”

“You talk to them, Aidan?”

I shake my head. “Had to get to work. Vito tans my hide if I’m late. ’Sides,” I throw in defensively “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”

She smiles, and I can almost hear her thinking, Oh, if only I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one.

I start pacing, quick, agitated steps. “I’m writing a letter,” I say abruptly, because she’s staring at me with that knowing PO sort of way, and you just have to say something when an authority figure stares at you that way.

“Yeah?”

“To Rachel,” I say. She won’t know who Rachel is, since it’s an alias and all, but that doesn’t stop her from nodding understandingly. “Gotta put into words how it feels to be helpless. Been tough to do, you know. Nobody likes to feel helpless. But I think I’m getting pretty good at it now. Think I’m gonna get a lot of quality time to know just what helpless feels like.”

“Talk to me, Aidan.”

“I didn’t do it! Okay? I didn’t do it. But this woman is gone, and I live five houses away, and I’m in the friggin’ sex offenders database, and that’s just it. Game over. Got pervert, will make arrest. Not like anyone’s gonna believe anything I say.”

“Did you know the woman, Aidan?”

“Not really. Just saw her around and all. But they got a kid. Saw that, too. And I’m following the rules. Don’t need no more trouble, not me. They have kids, I stay away.”

“I understand she’s very pretty.”

“Got a kid,” I say firmly, almost like a mantra, which hell, maybe it is.

“You’re nice-looking.” Colleen tilts her head as she says this, almost as if she’s appraising me, but I’m not fooled. “Living a quiet life, not getting out much. I can imagine how frustrating that must be for you.”

“Trust me, I whack off every day. Just ask my support counselor. She makes us tell her all about it.”

Colleen doesn’t flinch at my vulgarity. “What’s her name?” she asks abruptly.

“Whose name?”

“The woman.”

“Jones, I think. Something Jones.”

She’s watching me shrewdly, trying to figure out how much I know, or how much she can trick me into giving away. For example, will I confess that I met with the husband of the missing woman, even though the child was at home? I figure this is a detail I should keep to myself. Rule of thumb once you’re a felon-volunteer nothing, make the law enforcement officer do all the work.

“I believe it’s Sandra Jones,” she muses at last. “She teaches over at the middle school. Husband works nights. Tough gig, that. Her working days, the hubby working nights. I imagine she might have been feeling frustrated, too.”

I snap the elastic at my wrist. She hasn’t asked a question, so I’ll be damned if I answer.

“Kid’s pretty cute.”

I don’t say a word.

“Precocious, I understand. Loves to ride her trike all over the neighborhood. Maybe you’ve seen her a time or two?”

“See child, cross street,” I report. Snap, snap, snap.

“What were you doing last night, Aidan?”

“Already told you: nothin’.”

“Got an alibi for the nothing you were doing?”

“Sure, call Jerry Seinfeld. I hang out with him every night, seven P.M.”

“And after that?”

“Went to bed. Mechanics have an early start.”

“You went to bed alone?”

“Believe I already answered that, too.”

Now she arches a brow. “Really, Aidan, don’t dazzle me with your charm. Keep up this attitude, police are gonna toss you behind bars for sure.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Then convince me of it. Talk to me. Tell me all about this nothing you’ve been doing, because you’re right, Aidan-you’re a registered sex offender living five houses from where a woman has gone missing, and so far you’re looking pretty good for this.”

I lick my lips. Snap my band. Lick my lips. Snap my band.

I want to tell her about the car, but I don’t. Volunteering the car tidbit will bring the police to my house for sure. Better to wait, use the information as barter once they’ve hauled in my sorry ass for questioning and have me locked up in a holding cell. Better to talk when I can trade the information for freedom. Never give somethin’ for nothin’, another rule of thumb for the convicted felon.

“If I had done something,” I say at last, “then I damn well woulda put together a better story, don’t you think?”

“The lack of alibi is your alibi,” Colleen states drolly.

“Yeah, something like that.”

She rises off the sofa, and I have one second where I honestly feel relieved. I’m gonna survive after all.

Then she asks: “Can we walk outside?”

And I feel my good mood disappear just like that. “Why?”

“Nice night. I want to get some fresh air.”

I can’t think of a thing to say, so we walk outside, her, six feet high in some crazy platform boots, me, all hunched up in jeans and a white T-shirt. I’ve stopped snapping the rubber band at least. My wrist has gone numb and turned bright red. I look like a suicide victim. It’s something to consider.

She walks around the house, to the back yard. I can see her, intently checking the grounds. Any bloody power tools lying around? Perhaps some fresh-turned earth?

I want to say Fuck you. Of course, I say nothing at all. I keep my head down. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to give anything away.

Later, she will tell me she’s doing this for my own good. She is looking out for me, trying to protect me. She only wants to help me.

And I can suddenly picture myself, sitting down on my stupid pink floral sofa, writing full force: