Today he climbs out of his massive white truck, dangling keys from one hand as condensation huffs from his mouth. It’s unseasonably cold for the first week of October. The temperature dropped this evening. Earlier today, Gen pulled her plants inside.
The neighbor moves up his front stairs and unlocks the door. I watch his journey through the house as lights flare in several of the side windows, finally illuminating his kitchen, where he stops at his sink. He raises a beer bottle to his lips, but just before he tips his head back to drink, he pauses like a lion scenting prey nearby. Then he turns and looks right at me.
Instinctively, I drop below counter level, sloshing wine all over my sweater. The chardonnay rolls down my neckline and over my hands.
A key rattles the lock. The house’s security system beeps, signaling the front door is open. The girls are home.
I quickly rise and toss the rest of my wine into the sink, glancing out the window one more time. The neighbor is no longer standing there.
“Mommy, Mommy!” Paris calls out, her feet slapping against the hallway tile.
I react quickly, hoping to catch Gunnar before he pulls away. “Is your daddy out front?”
“No, Grammy dropped us off.”
My stomach dips with disappointment, but then my six-year-old hurtles toward me, arms outstretched, and grabs me around the waist in a hug. Bridget marches past, her hands filled with pink bags sprouting rainbow tissue paper.
“Hey, sugar booger. Did you have a good time?”
Paris pulls out of the hug, wrinkling her nose. “Ew, you’re all wet.”
I brush at my sweater. “I spilled something.”
“It smells like wine.”
“Hey, Mom.” Annalen, my oldest, saunters in and slings her purse over a kitchen stool.
“Hey, baby, did you—”
“Mommy, Daddy got married!” Paris blurts.
My heart freefalls from what feels like the fourteenth story of a building. Reflexively, I raise my hand to my damp sweater, right over the source of the sudden jolt of pain. “What?”
“Paris!” Annalen jabs her sister in the arm. “I told you not to say anything.” Then she eyes me, gauging my response.
I clear my throat. “What—when did he get married?”
Annalen’s scolding gaze remains on Paris. “Like a week ago. He and Martina eloped. In Lake Tahoe.”
“Oh.” Gunnar and I spent our honeymoon in a cabin in Lake Tahoe. “Wonder why he didn’t tell me.”
Annalen puts her hand on my arm. “Mom, are you okay?”
I force a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Oh, sure, honey. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
Grinding my teeth, I wait until all four of the girls head upstairs. Then I quickly grab my glass out of the sink, refill it with chardonnay, carry it to my bedroom, and shut the door.
4
“Claire. Please call me Claire.”
The woman sits across from me in the floral armchair with puffy eyes, a tissue clutched in her hand. Whitney is a new patient, and she’s having a hard time with the “therapy” experience.
“I just need a minute,” she says.
I wait patiently for her to speak. “I know this isn’t easy.”
“I’m sorry,” Whitney says. “I didn’t think this would be so hard.”
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
Whitney is younger than me, probably by a few years. Maybe early thirties. Attractive with black hair that curls at her chin and big, green eyes.
“So, tell me about yourself, Whitney.” I glance down at the notes on my electronic tablet. “You have children, right?”
“Yes. Two girls.”
I smile. “I have girls too. Four of them.”
Whitney raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You have a lot on your plate.”
“They’re good girls.”
“Mine are too,” Whitney says. “I mean, at least they’re no trouble.” She lowers her head. “I don’t know why I feel the need to say that. But I mean, yes, they are good girls.”
“What ages?”
“Twelve and fourteen.” She glances up at me. “I started young.”
“My oldest girls are twelve and fourteen too. Time flies.” I laugh. “I can’t believe my oldest is just starting her first year at West Branch High.”
Whitney brightens. “West Branch High? Jocelyn goes to West Branch too. Maybe your daughter and mine know each other.”
I smile. “We live in Amber Mills.”
“I live in Hemlock Branch.”
“We’re neighbors.”
Whitney sucks air through her teeth. “I hope that won’t be weird. What if I run into you at the grocery store?”
“Then I’ll probably say hi.”
She visibly relaxes. “Okay. I just didn’t know if that was allowed or—”
“Of course. There are no therapist rules that say you can’t live in the same neighborhood as your clients.”
She rests her hands on her knees. “Right. I’m sorry. I’m new to this. Obviously.”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine. Sometimes my clients forget that therapists are actual people who go to the grocery, eat at restaurants, and live in a neighborhood just like everyone else.”
To get us back on track, I scan my electronic tablet for relevant socio-emotional information. I’m not usually this chatty with my clients about my personal life. “And . . . how long since the divorce?”
“About a year.” Whitney’s voice breaks.
Just like me.
“How long were you married?”
“Fourteen years. I mean, we got married because—you know, I was pregnant with Jocelyn. My parents were religious.”
My mouth wrenches into a smile. “Mine as well. My father was a minister. In fact, for a time, he was an exorcist.”
Her eyes bulge. “Really? That’s wild.”
I nod. “Most weeks, he stood in front of a congregation on Sundays and delivered sermons, but now and again, he was called on to deliver someone from evil.” I sit back. “So yeah, I spent a portion of my young life memorizing Bible verses.” Again, I don’t know why I need to disclose something so personal about myself so early. Usually, if I reveal anything at all, it’s much, much later, after I’ve gotten to know my client well. And I never tell anyone about my father’s days as an exorcist.
“What about now?” she asks. “Are you still religious?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Why not? What happened?”
I don’t want to talk about this. I look back down at my notes. “Let’s get back to you. Fourteen years. That’s a long time to be married. How did it end—the marriage?”
Whitney pauses, her eyes darting away. “You know, the usual. He met someone else.”
I set my electronic tablet aside and lean forward. Sometimes the devices are a hindrance, and they put patients off, lead them to think I’m not listening. “Did you do any marriage counseling?”
“No. I brought it up, suggested it, but he wouldn’t even consider it. He’s very—well, he was very tied to what his parents thought, and they were a big part of the reason we split up.”
Sounds a lot like Gunnar. I never fit his parents’ expectations of what they wanted for a daughter-in-law. After a while, I just stopped trying.
I quirk my mouth, fascinated by how much Whitney and I seem to have in common. “How are the girls adjusting to the divorce?”
“Fine. They usually see their father every other weekend and a few days during the week. I think they’re doing okay.”
“My kids are the same. Children are resilient.” I cross my legs. I almost feel a little too comfortable—like I’m talking to my friend Dawn. “And how about you? How are you doing with it?”
Whitney’s eyes water and a reddish flush races up her neck. “I feel like I should be over it already.”
“After fourteen years? Healing takes time, Whitney.”
“I was doing okay until last week when
I found out about...” She takes a deep breath that lifts her upper body. “Well, he’s just gotten remarried. He just did it—he and his girlfriend. They eloped and then came back and told the girls.”
I stop. Wait. Really? How is it possible our lives, our divorces, are so closely aligned? “So, you had no idea?”
“Not until the kids came home and told me.”
I yank myself back into therapist mode. I furrow my brow, give a quick shake of my head. Tactics to mimic the body language of the patient, show empathy. “Mm. Painful.”
“Yes. Maybe I still carried some thought that...” Whitney breaks off with a motion of her hand.
“That you might get back together?” I know that feeling all too well.
“Yes.”
“And this news symbolizes the death of that hope.”
“Yes.” Her voice is barely audible.
“That must hurt.”
Tears slip over her cheeks. “I always assumed—well, I thought things wouldn’t go this way for me. That we would stay together—it never occurred to me that he would leave me . . . for good.”
I brace my elbow on the arm of the chair and fist my hand against my chin. “None of us marry with the idea that we’re going to divorce. Or that our partner is going to leave us.”
She looks down at her hands. “He used to tell me how much he loved me. He used to say I was the best person he knew and that I could always be trusted to do the right thing.”
“Do you think you always do the right thing?”
“I try. I mean, I guess so. I think I’m a good person. But...” She looks off to the side with a smile. “Being good isn’t always easy.”
Another sentiment that I understand well.
5
My SUV is dead. The engine grunts, groans, and then goes silent. This day is not going the way I hoped.
“Looks like it’s probably the battery.” Gen and Trey Painter lean over the open hood. Trey rests a brown beer bottle on the side as he peers into the coils and wires and tubes. “Do you need to go anywhere tonight?”
“I guess not.” Grocery shopping can wait a day.
“You could call Triple A.” Trey pushes away from the hood. “I’d help you out, but I’m meeting up with a bud of mine tonight.”
“You most certainly are not!” Gen interjects, her hand in its usual position under her pregnant belly. “This is book club night. I need you to watch the kids.”
Trey takes a long swig from his bottle then extends his arms. “Why do you need me to watch the kids? You’re right there in the same house with them. They’ll just do their thing while you do yours.”
Gen moves her hands to her hips. “Trey, come on. I don’t ask you for much.”
Trey brushes past her. “Nope. I told you about this a week ago. I’m going. I need a night out.” He crosses the street and walks up the brick steps into their house.
“You’ve already had three beers,” she calls after him. “How are you going to get there?”
“I’ll call an Uber or something.”
I close the hood with a downward shove. “It’s okay. Thanks anyway. I’ll call a tow service.”
Gen turns back to me slowly, sneering. “He drinks too much.”
I’ve noticed. Then again, Gen can’t be easy to live with. And with the kids screaming all the time and knowing there’s another noise frequency on the way, I might welcome alcoholic oblivion too.
Gen drops her hands from her hips. “So, are you coming tonight?”
Book club. For the past six months, a small group of us have been meeting at Gen’s to discuss whatever book was on the menu—usually something from Reese Witherspoon’s recommendations. “I haven’t quite finished the book, but—”
“What?” She draws back. “You always read the book.”
“I’m about halfway through it, but it’s been a busy few weeks.”
She nods. “School just started up. You have a lot going on. We all do. Come anyway. You know the book talk is secondary.”
GEN’S NOT KIDDING. Book club is really just another term for wine club.
I sit in the living room with Gen and two other neighbors. We’ve been here an hour already, and so far, there’s no mention of the book we all supposedly read. I glance at the table and the three empty green bottles. Wine glasses are full, faces flushed. Even Gen is drinking a glass.
As she pours, she waves her hand in the air. “The doctor told me one glass of wine now and then is fine.”
“How much longer do you have?” I eye her stomach.
“Eight more weeks,” Gen groans. “I can’t believe it. I’m so much bigger than I was with Colton or Amelia.”
With a twinge of nostalgia, I recall my final pregnant months. “My last two were like that. I gained eighty pounds with Paris.”
“What?” Linda rakes a hand through her swingy black hair. “You’re like a rail. I can’t believe you actually weigh eighty pounds now, much less gained that much during pregnancy.”
I cast a glance at Linda’s thin, five-foot-two physique.
Linda pats her flat stomach. “When I had Esther, I barely gained anything. The doctors kept telling me eat, eat.” Her eyes roll up in her head. “And then Hyo, Jay’s mother, drove me nuts trying to feed me constantly. You know, she’s Asian.”
Linda is Asian too, but she often talks about her mother-in-law like they’re from different planets.
She holds up a hand, sits forward. “My mother-in-law was like, ‘Jin Hee’—because she calls me by my Korean name—‘Jin Hee, if you don’t eat, the baby will be too small.’” Linda imitates Hyo’s accent. “‘And then it could die.’” Rolling her eyes again, she falls back on the couch and swills from her wine. “I swear. You guys don’t even know what it’s like living with her.”
She’s right. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if Gunnar’s mother had lived with us. Bad. That much I know.
Gen dribbles wine on her sweater and dabs at it with a napkin. “Anyone know why they’ve stopped building on that lot behind Amber Mills?”
The lot is directly behind my house. For several months, I’d hear bulldozers humming as the workers cleared the land and put up house frames.
“I heard something about funding,” I say.
Dawn purses her lips. “Actually, I thought it had to do with the property being so close to that abandoned house—the one the serial murderer used to live in. No one wants to live that close to the place.”
“Hyo says it’s because of the holes in the ground,” Linda says.
“What?”
“Yeah, she says something about erosion and holes in the ground that had the potential to swallow up the houses.” Linda rolls her eyes. “But who knows? She’s always trying to tell us horrible things are going to happen. Like she’s psychic or something.”
“Is she?”
Linda wrenches one side of her face. “No. Of course not. She just thinks she knows more than everyone else. ‘Jay, this neighborhood is going to the dogs. Jay, we need to move somewhere else. Jay, there’s something bad here.’”
“Is she not happy living here?” Dawn asks.
Linda waves a hand. “She’s not happy living anywhere. She’s just not happy. I do not understand that woman.”
“I had a hard time with Gunnar’s mother too,” I say, my words fueled by wine. “It’s actually a relief not to have her around all the time, turning Gunnar against me.”
Linda gestures toward me. “You’re so lucky, Claire. It’s just you and the girls now. No man throwing his dirty clothes on the floor or picking at his teeth with a knife like it’s a toothpick.”
I’m amused at the image she’s conjured, but the stab of pain follows closely, and the smile never leaves the corners of my mouth.
Dawn pours more wine. “Are the girls with Gunnar tonight, Claire?”
“No, they’re at home. Annalen’s fourteen now—and she’s very responsible. So I don’t mind leaving them alone for a little while.
Annalen has a phone, or one of them could come running across the street if the house was on fire or anything.” I laugh.
Gen sips from her glass and flutters her hand at me simultaneously. “No, don’t say that. Don’t even joke about that.”
Linda smacks a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Jay’s mother would say you’ve cursed yourself now. Don’t ever say anything like that around her.”
My face heats. “I’m just joking, ladies. You know I would never put my girls in danger.”
I lift my glass and shoot a sidelong glance at Dawn. Does everything have to be so literal?
Dawn sets down her glass, stands to her full five-ten stature, and yanks her purple sweater down, straightening it over her ample chest. “Okay, ladies, listen up. I’ve got the scoop on the guy across the street.”
With glowing red faces, everyone scoots to the front of the couch cushions.
“His name is Steel Nolan.” Dawn uses her hands to punctuate her words. “And he has the tiniest bit of an accent.”
Gen leans forward. “What kind of accent?”
Dawn twists a long, blonde lock around her fingers and smiles, revealing deep dimples in her cheeks. “I think he said he was born in Holland.”
A sigh of pleasure ripples through the group.
“Holland, really?” My lips twist into a smile. “That’s cool. My mother was Dutch.”
Linda stands and bends side to side, cracking her back. “Did she speak Dutch?”
“No. She came here with her parents as a baby. They only spoke English at home.”
Gen places a hand on her lower back. “How did you find out about all this, Dawn?”
“I asked him.” Dawn lifts her sculpted eyebrows. “He was at the mailbox yesterday, and I rushed him before he had a chance to slip back inside.”
I set down my wine glass. “Since his house is right next to mine. I’ve been watching him from my kitchen window every night. I feel like a stalker or something.”
The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense Page 2