Neighbors And Favors

by Kate Davis

  “Did you talk to Shane yet?” Mom asks. The woman can obviously read my mind. Bless her for paving the way.

  “Not yet.” In my attempt to seem nonchalant, I take another sip of my tea and count to five before I fire off the first question. “So, why is he here again?”

  “He’s staying with us for a while. Your mom told you that already,” Dad says.

  I hold my breath for more to come, but he remains silent. My gaze flicks from him to my mother and then back to him. They exchange meaningful looks.

  Seriously? Since when have my parents become so taciturn? They usually love to talk. To me. To the neighbors. To the unsuspecting tourists they meet on the street, who make the mistake of asking for directions.

  That’s when it dawns on me. They’re sharing another secret. I can’t believe it. They’re trying to keep something from me.

  Forget what I just said about not appearing interested. I don’t care about that anymore. I want to know everything.

  “Spill,” I say.

  Mom smirks. “I’m not sure that we can, darling. See, we were sworn to secrecy and—”

  “Spill,” I repeat. “Secrecy has never been your thing. Besides, remember what the bible says. ‘For all that is secret will eventually be brought into the open’.”

  I’m not sure the verse goes like that or that it even applies in this type of situation. But mentioning the bible always has the same effect on my mother. Her expression turns all serene and in awe. The Word is everything to her and she would never do anything that goes against it.

  “Bad people are looking for him. We don’t know the exact details but Shane needed a safe house quickly. Pastor Rick vouches for him and we trust him,” Mom says. “He’s been staying with us for a while.”

  “A while?” I repeat, flabbergasted.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you. It was for your own protection,” Dad chimes in, backing up Mom as usual.

  I stare at them, lost for words, as I try to wrap my mind around “a while”.

  “Let me get this straight. When you were at my apartment, rummaging through the folders on my laptop, metaphorically speaking, Shane was here?”

  Mom nods. “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “Yes.” I think I can see the faintest shadow of guilt on her face, but I wouldn’t bet my non-existent income on it.

  “And when you say ‘a while’ you mean like—” I gesture with my hand, silently inviting her to finish the sentence for me.

  “Since your date,” Mom says.

  “Non-date,” I correct. “It didn’t really happen, Mom.”

  “We beg to differ. Dressing up and meeting someone for dinner is a date,” Dad says.

  “We didn’t have dinner. We barely exchanged a few words.” That is one discussion I will not go into. “Whatever. Let’s get back to the topic at hand. Shane never left? He never flew back to England, like he said he would? He’s been staying with you all this time?”

  “Yes.” Mom nods her head again. “They figured our place was ideal. Really safe. Pastor Rick, who has friends all over the world, recommended us. He introduced him to us.”

  “Oh.” The penny drops. Now I know what Pastor Rick was doing outside my building. He was there for Shane.

  “I can’t believe it.” I shake my head. Shane never left and my parents kept a secret from me for longer than five minutes. What’s the world coming to?

  “You should have said something instead of—” Letting me fret and beat myself up while feeling inferior that he wouldn’t even have dinner with me, I want to say. But I don’t mention that because they know nothing about my inner turmoil after Shane’s disappearance.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I asked them not to.”

  I turn sharply toward the door, and my breath catches in my chest. Shane’s standing in the doorway, dressed in blue jeans and a dark gray T-shirt that suits the color of his eyes. Seeing him up and close, it feels as though I’m seeing a ghost. I certainly didn’t expect to ever see him again and as a result, my brain must have eradicated parts of him from my memory, such as the dimples that form whenever he smiles.

  Sammy gets up and sways around his feet, bobbing her head as she begs to be picked up. He scoops her up, scratching her belly as he does, which makes my dog purr in pure bliss.

  “I didn’t want to put your life in danger,” Shane says. “In retrospect, I realize inviting you to my apartment was a bad move. It was probably how they came to the conclusion there was a connection between you and me.”

  “It’s fine.” I clear my throat, unsure what to say. I have so many questions and yet I don’t dare to ask any of them out of fear that he’ll find me snooping and meddlesome.

  “Trish, don’t we have this—” Dad grabs Mom’s arm, almost dragging her out of the dining area.

  “I think we do. That—you know—”

  “Thing,” Dad helps her out as they scurry next door, probably tuning in to our conversation from the kitchen.

  I shake my head. I can’t believe my parents managed to find an excuse to leave me alone with Shane, and I didn’t see right through them. I really must have had my head buried somewhere deep in my own world.

  “I owe you an explanation,” Shane says.

  “You do. Just not here, unless you don’t mind an audience.” I incline my head toward the kitchen and grimace meaningfully.

  He nods, getting my drift. “Your room?” His lips twitch. I can almost see his brain conjuring Justin Bieber’s image.

  “Do I have a choice?” I mumble. I’m pretty sure my old bedroom’s the only place in my parents’ house that offers an inkling of privacy.

  “She’s having a boy over,” Mom squeals.

  I roll my eyes, mortified. “Mom, the boy phase was more than a decade ago. This is two adults talking.”

  “Talking things out,” Dad offers, not helping.

  I lead Shane down the corridor and make sure to close the door behind us. I would lock it if I could, but my parents weren’t fans of locks or bolts. What if a fire broke out and I was unconscious from all the fumes and they needed to break in the door? Or so Mom argued. Obviously, my reasoning stood no chance in the face of looming disaster.

  “Please sit.” I point at my bed, almost hoping he won’t take me up on the invitation because, in the confined space, Shane seems too close for comfort. The air’s a little thin and I’m having trouble breathing.

  His unexpected presence does strange things to me. But that’s not the reason why I’m more nervous than I should be. The manuscript’s existence is a huge burden to carry. At some point, I’ll have to come clean.

  I bite my lip as I try to build up the courage to tell him.

  In the end, cowardice wins.

  Not now. I’ll let him talk first. And then…maybe then…I’ll find the right words.

  “Thanks.” Shane sits down, oblivious to the tension that makes my hands shake.

  “Do you mind?” Not waiting for his reply, I open a window, but even the cool, fresh air does nothing to calm my nerves.

  “I pictured this easier. I guess I was wrong.” He laughs, but the nervous edge in his voice doesn’t escape me. “The funny thing is I must have told this story a hundred times. I should know where to begin but—” His gaze pierces through me with a strange intensity.

  “You could start at the beginning,” I suggest.

  He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, prolonging the moment before the words begin to flow. “You know my name and where I’m from.” I nod, and he continues, “That much is true. I’m from England. I was allowed to keep my full name.” I can sense his hesitation again. Either he really doesn’t know where to begin or it takes him an insurmountable amount of effort to open up to me.

  “Yes?” I say with a little more impatience than I should feel given that I haven’t exactly been frank with him, either.

  “I’ve been living here for a few months.” He pauses, then
adds, “In witness protection. The government insisted. They wanted me to disappear until the trial.”

  I stare at him.

  Out of all the things I thought he might be hiding, witness protection wasn’t one of them. It must be serious business if the government insisted he leave Britain for a while.

  He holds up a hand, misinterpreting my stunned expression. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I told you my grandparents raised me. My grandfather was a minister, and while I didn’t feel that the clerical route was the best path for me, I knew that some day I was meant to do good in other ways. So I became a banker, and a really good one. I made a lot of money that I wanted to put to better use than houses and cars.”

  He pauses again, eager to read my expression. I keep my poker face on, unsure where this is heading. When I say nothing, he continues, “Anyway, I started out supporting our local homeless charity, advising them on short-term investment opportunities. Rather than spend the little donations they received straight away, I would invest the money in high-risk, high-yield opportunities. I even got the company I was working for to step in. We helped charities on a worldwide scale. They would spare a few hours a week, and the company used their charity account to cover the expenses, which was tax-deductible. It was a win-win situation for everyone.”

  “Sounds like a good thing,” I offer.

  “Yes, I thought so too.” He smirks. “Unfortunately, when steered by greed, people have this tendency to use the best good cause for evil. Some of my workmates started to see this as an excellent opportunity for embezzling money. They began to use the accounts for money laundering. Charity work on such a huge scale can be quite confusing, and tax authorities rarely have the manpower or time to look into the books. But when the numbers began to be a little too off and didn’t add up a few years later, someone was bound to notice. Given that I started the whole thing I was meant to be the first person of interest.”

  He pauses and smirks again. I wait until he continues, “It’s all my fault. It never occurred to me the people I called friends would do something like that.”

  “That’s horrible when you meant well,” I say softly.

  “Yes, well. It was a huge affair. I was lucky they went to my boss. He vouched for me. They kept it all quiet because charities are a matter of public interest. You don’t want people to lose their trust and stop supporting them. In the end, those involved had no time to cover their tracks. I helped the investigation, but we’re talking about millions and some people weren’t happy. I received death threats and had to leave my country for a while.”

  “How did you end up here?” Out of all places, I want to add, but bite my tongue to keep myself from doing so. Let’s face it, I’m glad they didn’t send him to Canada or France or who knows where. If they had, Shane and I would have never met.

  He smiles. “It was quite the coincidence. You know Pastor Rick?”

  “Do I know him?” I laugh. “He’s like the second dad I never wanted.”

  “Well, my grandfather’s local pastor is a friend of his. Apparently, they attend this clerical retreat once a year. Stacy had been moving me around every two weeks and I was getting restless. As it so happens, Pastor Rick told my pastor about this great family I could trust, a family that would take good care of me, help me with anything I needed while I stayed put. Just until the trial when I’ll get to testify. The initial plan was that I stay with the family that came highly recommended.” He winks.

  I stare at him, open-mouthed. Is he talking about my parents? Maybe even about me? It can’t be because I highly doubt Pastor Rick would add me to the trustworthy equation. But I can definitely see Mom high up the ladder.

  “I wanted my own place. Stacy and I had this huge argument about it. But in the end she realized she couldn’t go against my wishes. I flew over, moved into the apartment Pastor Rick had set up for me, and—” he looks at me with a strange glint in his eyes, “—then I met you.”

  Well, that last part isn’t entirely true. “You didn’t really meet me. I banged on your door, demanding that you stop whatever you were doing in there.”

  Shane’s brows shoot up. “We would have met at your mother’s little party anyway. She had invited me weeks before we had even met, before she knew anything about me.”

  “Still, we didn’t meet in the conventional sense. If you’re telling a story, you need to make sure it’s truthful.”

  He laughs. “That’s the plan. Thanks for the rectification.”

  “You’re welcome.” We both fall silent for a moment, the sudden caginess hanging heavy between us.

  “Stacy.” I let her name linger in the air, the obvious question unspoken. I know she’s an officer of some sort. I know she’s good at her job. What I don’t know is her exact relationship to him. Not that it’s any of my concern. It would just be nice to have the complete picture, that’s all.

  Or so I tell myself.

  “Are you trying to find out my relationship status?” He laughs, good-humoredly. I think he feels a bit flattered, but I can’t tell. I join in and roll my eyes.

  “Absolutely not.” The lie comes too easily. “Maybe a little,” I correct, thinking of my new resolution not to lie. “But only because you seem to have left out several pieces of the puzzle.”

  “There isn’t much of a puzzle, really. Stacy is a part of the United States Marshals Service.”

  I think my jaw drops. “She is a Marshal?”

  He nods. “She’s taken good care of me. She’s become a good friend.” My disbelief must be evident in my expression because he asks, “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to believe you. It’s just—”

  “What?” he prods. “It’s hard for you to believe that she’s here to protect me and take care of me until the trial?”

  “Well, that too. But there’s something else.” I hesitate, unsure how to put my thoughts into words without sounding like I’ve been tuning into whatever he’s been doing in his apartment. “The noise.”

  “The noise?” Shane repeats, confused.

  “The sounds.” I nod, meaningfully. “You know.”

  He shakes his head.

  I roll my eyes again, annoyed that I have to spell out the obvious. “The banging. And lots of it. At the most impossible of hours. She was there a few times while you were doing it. The first time I knocked on your door, it was because you were so loud. You took your sweet time opening that door, and you were wearing next to nothing. I’m pretty sure I heard a few grunts and—” I wave my hand in the air as heat shoots up my neck. The skin on my face prickles.

  For a second or two, Shane just stares at me. I can see his brain working, trying to make sense of my words. The moment he realizes what I’m implying, a lightbulb seems to light up above his head.

  “You thought I was—” He shakes his head, his lips twitching. “You thought we were—” He laughs.

  “What’s so funny?” I mumble, wishing I had just shut up.

  “You thought the noise was—” He laughs again. It takes him a while to calm himself, during which I sit rigidly, my arms crossed over my chest. I’ve never felt so mortified.

  “I live in Norfolk, in a converted farmhouse just outside of Norwich,” Shane says eventually.

  I frown. Is that supposed to tell me something? Provide an explanation?

  “Meaning I’m used to being as noisy as I want to be,” he goes on.

  “Of course. I didn’t mean you couldn’t be. In fact, you can be as loud as you want.” I wish he would just drop it now.

  “I didn’t realize the walls around here were so thin,” he’s muttering to himself now. “If I had known I would have made sure you weren’t home when I—” He breaks off, his gaze boring into me. There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. He knows I’m mortified, and he’s having a laugh at my expense, winding me up further.

  “Don’t even think about it. You do what you do when the need strikes.” I take a deep breath, but no o
xygen seems to reach my brain. My face is burning up. I can’t have this conversation with him. It’s too personal for my taste.

  “The problem is I can’t sit still for too long,” he continues. “I need an outlet for all the excess energy.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod, more than eager to change the topic. “Anyway, I hope you enjoyed your stay with my parents. They can be a bit too much, but they’re very hospitable and usually go out of their way to make everyone feel welcome.”

  “I usually go for long walks, do a bit of trekking in the woods near my home,” Shane says. His eyes stay on me, eager to take in my reaction.

  Seriously, why can’t he just leave it alone? I don’t want to hear about his excess energy. I already know more than I should.

  “Research agrees it’s very healthy. Mom’s British cooking must have made you feel right at home.” I cringe at my blatant attempt to change the subject.

  “Without the woods, I had to find something else to do.”

  I groan inwardly. Come on!

  “So I decided to keep busy carving wood to remodel the apartment. It was in bad shape, and I figured it was the least I could do for the kind people who let me live there.” He winks.

  Wait, what?

  I stare at him.

  “The noise,” Shane says. “The banging and the groaning and all that. Doing it alone, without much of the usual equipment can be a bit more challenging than you would expect, but I like the outcome.” His eyes narrow on me. “Did you like the dining table?”

  Wood carving? Is that a thing?

  My mind flashes back to the times I visited his apartment. I sat on his couch and admired his dining table, didn’t I? And then there was the smell of wood which I thought was a weird room spray, a guy thing.

  “You made the dining table?” I ask.

  “Yes. Even Pastor Rick was impressed.”

  “Oh.” My mind flicks back to the one time I caught him outside, hiding in the bushes. I thought my mother had sent him to spy on me. “Did he visit you?”

  “Pastor Rick? A few times. He brought copies of his sermons. Letters from my family.”