Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

“I want to know where Jason Jones comes from,” D.D. stated, working her way up the stairs. “Guy as cool and collected as that. Working as a small-time reporter, sitting on four million, and according to his own child doesn’t even have a best friend. What the hell makes this guy tick?”

Miller shrugged.

“Let’s get two detectives digging into some deep background,” D.D. continued. “Cradle to grave, I want to know everything about Jason Jones, Sandra Jones, and their respective families. I can tell you now, something there is gonna click.”

“I want his computer,” Miller murmured.

“Hey, at least we have his garbage. Any news?”

“Got a crew on it now. Give them a couple of hours, they’ll have a report.”

“Miller?” she asked with a troubled look on her face.

“What?”

“I know Ree saw something that night. You know Ree saw something that night. What if the perpetrator knows it, too?”

“You mean Jason Jones?”

“Or Aidan Brewster. Or the unidentified subject 367.”

Miller didn’t answer right away, but started to look concerned, as well. Marianne Jackson had been right: Ree was very, very vulnerable right now.

“Guess we’d better hurry up,” Miller said grimly.

“Yeah, guess so.”

I dreamed of Rachel last night. She was saying, “No, no, no,” and I was finding all the right spots to change her “no, no, no” to “yes, yes, yes.”

“It’s not my fault,” I was saying in my dream, “you have such perfect breasts. God wouldn’t have given you such perfect breasts if He’d really meant for me to leave you alone.”

Then I was pinching her nipples between my fingers and she was leaning back and breathing heavy and I knew I was winning. Of course I was winning. I was bigger, stronger, smarter. So I rubbed and stroked and cajoled until that magic moment when I was sinking deep inside her and maybe she was crying a little but what did it matter? She was also gasping and writhing and I made it good for her. I swear I made it good.

In my dream world I could feel it all building. Her legs wrapping around my waist. Her breasts rubbing against my chest. And I wanted. Oh God, I wanted. And then…

Then I woke up. Alone. Hard as a rock. Mad as hell.

I rolled out of bed still breathing hard. Made it to the shower, cranked it on as hot as it would go. Barreled into the steam and finished my business, because when you’re a twenty-three-year-old registered pervert, this is as good as it gets.

Except it’s not. In my mind I can still touch and taste the girl I want. The girl I have always wanted. The girl I can never have.

So I whack off, and I hate every minute of it. Touching Rachel was purity. This is an aberration. Pure transactional lust, nothing more, nothing less.

But I get it over with, clean up, towel off.

I get dressed without turning on a light or looking into a mirror and I know before I ever leave the house that it’s gonna be a bad day. A real shitkicker. My quiet little existence is over. I’m just waiting to see who delivers the death blow.

Colleen ended our little session last night by recommending that I continue with my usual routine. Sure, the police will pay me a visit. Can’t blame them for asking. And of course it’s my constitutional right to ask for counsel the moment I feel the need. But hey, I’m doing well. I’m a regular freaking success story. Don’t give up ground too easily, that’s what she tells me.

What she means is, running will be worse than staying. Something I’d already figured out for myself, thank you very much.

So hey, I walk to work. Seven-thirty A.M., I’m garbed in blue coveralls, my head under the hood of an old Chevy, pulling spark plugs. Look at me, Joe Schmoe, fighting the good fight. Yes sirree, Bob.

I’m tending, fixing, tightening, pretending that my grease-covered hands aren’t shaking a hundred miles per hour, or that my body isn’t still hard as a rock, or that I haven’t worked myself into such an agitated state that for the first time in my life, I’m honestly praying no female walks through the door because I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do. I’m fucked up. I’m just plain fucked up, and it’s not even nine A.M.

Vito’s got the radio on in the shop area. Local station. Plays a mix of eighties and nineties music. Lotta Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Nine-fifteen, the news comes on, and for the first time I hear the official announcement that a woman has gone missing in South Boston. Young wife, beloved sixth grade teacher, vanished in the middle of the night, leaving behind a young child. Some female detective is laying it on thick.

I finish the Chevy, move on to a big Suburban that needs new rear brakes. The other guys are muttering now, making conversation.

“In Southie? No way.”

“It’s drugs, gotta be drugs. It’s always drugs.”

“Nah. It’s the husband. Twelve to one he’s got a little project on the side, and doesn’t feel like paying alimony. Prick.”

“Hope they get him this time. Who was that last year, two of his wives disappeared, but they still couldn’t build a case…?”

On and on they go. I don’t say a word. Just attack the lug nuts with the impact wrench, then wrestle off the two rear tires. The old Suburban has drum brakes. What a bitch.

Only vaguely do I become aware of the whispering, of the pointing. My face reddens automatically, I find myself sputtering to speak. Then realize no one is pointing at me. They’re pointing at the front office, where Vito is currently standing with two cops.

I want to crawl inside the huge Suburban. I want to disappear into a pile of metal and plastic and chrome. Instead, I work my way around the vehicle, taking off the front tires now, like I’m gonna inspect the front disk brakes as well, even though nothing’s written on the order sheet.

“You’re a success story,” I mutter to myself, “a regular freaking success story.” But I’m not even buying it anymore.

I finish the Suburban. Cops are gone. I eye the clock, decide it’s close enough to the mid-morning break. I go to fetch my lunch pail and discover Vito standing in front of my locker, arms crossed over his chest.

“My office. Now,” he orders.

I don’t fight Vito. I unpeel my blue coveralls, ’cause I can tell from the look on his face I won’t be needing them anymore. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me the entire time, making sure buddy boy doesn’t get out of his line of sight. Nothing bad is gonna happen on Vito’s watch.

When I’m cleaned up, lunch box in hand, sweatshirt slung over my arm, Vito finally grunts and leads the way to his office. Vito knows what I’ve done. He’s one of those employers who doesn’t mind hiring sex offenders. He’s got work that doesn’t involve mixing with the public, and being a big, burly guy, he probably believes he can keep a kid like me in line. To be fair, he has moments where he’s actually kind. Hell, maybe employing a felon is his idea of public service. He’s taking in untouchables and turning them into productive members of society and all that. I don’t know.

I just find myself thinking that Vito has never made me feel as low as he does now, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mix of disappointment and disgust. We arrive in his cramped office. He sits behind his dust-covered desk. I stand because there isn’t another chair. He gets out the checkbook and starts writing.

“Police were here,” he says crisply.

I nod, then realize he’s not looking up, and force myself to say out loud: “I saw.”

“Woman’s gone missing. Sure you heard it on the news.” He skewers me with a glance.