The Woman In the Mirror: (A Psychological Suspense Novel) (Alexandra Mallory Book 1)

by Cathryn Grant

  Then there was hell.

  Noreen, with her gray, staring eyes that seemed to want to attach themselves like leeches to his body, had done everything but crawl into his bed to announce her interest. She flashed her boobs in his face, and asked him endless questions about his family, his career plans, his dreams, his car, his yoga practice, how he spent the hours of his day. She made sandwiches with mashed avocado and shredded carrots and sprouts. They were good, but he didn’t need a mother packing his lunch. He’d refused the breakfasts she fixed, which brought tears to her eyes. The woman was seriously unstable. How had sweet and responsible turned into cloyingly subservient and repulsive in just a few short weeks?

  The need simmering in Noreen’s eyes would drive him to find another place to live, but he wasn’t going to walk out of Alexandra’s life. Noreen could force-feed him runny eggs every morning, constantly forgetting they weren’t part of a vegan diet, and he wouldn’t budge from the room that shared a wall with Alexandra’s.

  He opened his bedroom door carefully. Both the other bedroom doors were closed. The house was silent, although with the tile floor, it was often hard to know when someone was moving about. He stood for a few minutes, listening for the sound of a kitchen cabinet door closing, or a coffee mug touching the table. Pressing his lips tightly together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils. There was no odor of coffee or food, just cool, early morning air.

  He stepped into the hallway, pulled his door closed, and walked into the great room. Pale light came through the glass panes on the front door. The blinds that covered the large windows and the doors out to the back deck were closed. The kitchen was dark, the counters wiped clean. He released his breath, not realizing he’d been holding it. He wanted a cup of tea, but the piercing scream of the kettle would summon Noreen, even if she was asleep. He took a teabag out of the cabinet, an apple out of the bowl on the counter, and hurried back to his room. He dressed without showering and went outside.

  The BMW roared to life. As he put it in gear, he couldn’t stop his head from turning to look at the front door. He’d known she would be there. The tip of Noreen’s nose was pressed against the glass. She stared out at him. Even though it wasn’t physically possible from that distance, he felt he could see the tears swimming across her eyes, the skin of her cheeks pulled taut as her mouth turned down in a look of unbearable sadness.

  12

  Mountain View, California

  Before I got the job at CoastalCreative, I was living in Silicon Valley, sharing a condo with a woman I’d met at the gym. The condo complex was enormous — four eight-story buildings situated beside El Camino Real with a narrow strip of drought-resistant shrubs and ground covered with river rock between us and a six-lane road. El Camino is a constant parking lot because the Silicon Valley section of the state-long highway passes through ten or twelve suburban cities. The entire forty-plus miles is lined with apartment buildings and condo complexes, restaurants and fast food places, shops, service stations, and strip malls. Cars are constantly turning in and out of the river of traffic.

  My building had thirty-two units. They were basically apartments, dubbed condos because people desperate to live in Silicon Valley were willing to put more than half a million dollars down on some walls and flooring to call their own, paying a homeowners’ association fee on top of that.

  I was a renter. Always a renter, with roommates who take responsibility for the lease or mortgage. It’s easier to come and go when your name isn’t on the mortgage or the electric bill. Someday I’ll have a place of my own, but I’m waiting for the day I can buy desirable property. Plenty of property, with a secluded, custom-built home. That day is a few years down the road, but there’s no doubt it will arrive before I hit my fortieth birthday. Small steps.

  I took a training class at a previous job where they taught us the power of a Japanese practice called Kaizen. It’s all about small steps, incremental growth. Instead of looking for a five hundred dollar a month raise, you should consider something smaller, hardly noticeable, make do with the current housing freak show and continue proving your value, feeding the company’s desire to retain you at all costs, and wait for the next raise, and the one after that.

  In Kaizen theory, you start by doing three abdominal crunches a day, instead of diving into twenty-five or thirty, quickly giving up because you can’t stand up straight for a week and it hurts to get out of bed in the morning. Small steps rather than the preferred American method of two huge steps forward and a stumble back. While I was taking the class, I sometimes walked around the condo with very tiny steps to cement it in my mind that small steps are more effective. I’m very American at the core, I want it all immediately. But Kaizen is powerful and tricks the mind into building a smooth, solid path forward.

  The condo I shared with Maria Anders was on the fourth floor. I’d met Maria at the gym and we hit it off immediately. She ran on the treadmill when it was raining or cold and windy, and so did I. She wasn’t fond of vodka martinis, but she loved Chardonnay, and it’s also a favorite of mine. As if the stars were aligned above me, her roommate had moved out two weeks after Maria and I met each other. She was in immediate need of someone to supplement her soul-crushing mortgage. Desperation works well for me — there’s less concern about digging into the background of a potential roommate. I moved in. We got along great. We each did our own thing. The only togetherness at home was a Sunday afternoon glass of Chardonnay on the balcony, when both of us were available at the same time. Our meet-ups in the gym continued, and when the weather was nice, we ran along nearby suburban streets with quaint homes built in the 1930s and 40s.

  The residents of our building were chill kind of people. Most of them I hardly knew more than to say hi to when we passed in the parking garage. There were three other units on the same floor as Maria’s. Charlie Denton, a decent looking guy who was studying for the California bar exam lived next door. Across the hall was Sylvia, a single mom with two kids — Josh and Janine. The others on our floor — two guys — didn’t give out their names, preferring to pass with friendly but aloof smiles and nods. They never hung out by the pool or in the community barbecue area.

  Charlie attached himself to me right away. He always seemed to be emerging from the parking garage just as I arrived home from work. I didn’t have a car. I took the train, walking four blocks home, even in bad weather. I didn’t mind, it allowed me to avoid that horrendous traffic going up and down El Camino Real. Most days, the train moved faster.

  The first time Charlie and I said more than hi, how ya’ doing with a comment or two on the weather conditions or sports news, was beside the pool. The water was silky turquoise and undisturbed by children or furious lap swimmers. It was the Saturday afternoon before Easter so I suppose all the kids were at egg hunts. I was lying on a pink towel wearing my second favorite black bikini. It has two narrow strands that connect the front and back sections of the bottom. The top mirrors the pants with two coils of fabric connecting the bra in the center front. The top is smaller than some. It displays my breasts quite nicely but without them falling out, which just looks sloppy. I was listening to Tchaikovsky. My eyes were closed, although that wasn’t obvious with my sunglasses on. Suddenly, an ear bud was yanked out. The tinny sound that emits from an earbud when it’s close but not in your ear spoiled the music. I opened my eyes, pressed pause, and sat up.

  Charlie stood there grinning. “You should be in the water, not zoning out to hip-hop.”

  “I don’t listen to hip-hop.”

  He dragged a chaise lounge closer to my towel and sat down. He wore black board shorts with a single red stripe down each side. The hair on his muscular legs was so thick his legs reminded me of a bear’s legs. “You look like a hip-hop kind of girl.”

  “What are the characteristics of a hip-hop girl…or boy?”

  He grinned. “Out there.”

  I thought about letting him see my eyes, but there was a lot of glare and I didn’t want to t
ake off my glasses just to stare at him until he realized he’d said something offensive. Not that he’d recognize his offense if I didn’t spell it out. Besides, his eyes also hid behind dark glasses and it was best to keep the playing field level.

  “Want to go for a swim?” he said.

  “No. I’m enjoying the sun.”

  “You’re sweaty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t…”

  I gave him a delicately welcoming smile.

  He laughed.

  He settled back in the chair and told me about the bar exam and how hard it was to prep for. It was a full time job. He was working at least eight hours a day, sometimes ten or eleven. “It’s the hardest exam there is.”

  “The hardest bar exam?”

  “No harder than any other test.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  He continued on about his study efforts. “It’s hard to concentrate because of all the noise coming from the zoo next door.”

  “What noise?”

  “Sylvia. Her kids. Other kids. Constant racket. She’s in violation of the condo guidelines. She has a friend living there. Did you know that? The friend has a baby and another little kid. All day long the TV is blasting kiddie shows with inane music.”

  “Close your window.”

  “I can still hear it.”

  “Noise cancelling headphones.”

  “Why should I have to change my environment when they’re breaking the law?”

  “They aren’t breaking the law.” I liked Sylvia. Her kids were cute, like little puppies and who doesn’t like puppies? And Sylvia made the most amazing brownies. Nearly once a week she brought over a plate of brownies, or chocolate chip cookies. Here was a woman who worked at least eight hours a day, Mr. Lawyer Wannabe, as an administrative assistant. Sometimes ten or eleven, and took great care of her kids. Her husband had waited until after he fathered two children to decide he didn’t want to be a dad after all. She managed to juggle a job she was trying to turn into a career, two small kids, and made amazing brownies. So what if she had a friend move in to help with childcare and rent?

  “You can’t have more than four people in a one-bedroom unit. She signed an agreement to that effect.”

  I tried to picture where they all slept. It sounded claustrophobic. “Well, she’s a single mother. It’s hard to get by.”

  “Tough. Then they should move somewhere cheaper.”

  “It’s not so easy to find housing around here.”

  “Where’s her husband?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s my business when I can’t study because her brats are rotting their brains in front of the TV.”

  I said nothing. I never heard any noise from Sylvia’s place. I didn’t like his attitude. And I was not in favor of her moving away with that brownie recipe.

  Eventually, I got tired of listening to him criticize Sylvia, and it was getting hot, stretched out in full sun surrounded by glaring white concrete. The sweat was thicker now, enough that it shimmered on my belly. We went for a swim and fooled around a bit, chasing each other under water and grabbing at bare skin. Once he got off the topic of single mothers, he was okay to talk to. It was interesting hearing about his favorite class in law school — a criminal defense clinic.

  I didn’t care for his view of Sylvia, but I really liked his muscular back and narrow waist and hips curving into a butt I couldn’t take my eyes off. It would be interesting to see whether my body or my brain won this round.

  13

  Aptos

  On Sunday, I had the house to myself. Noreen had gone to visit her parents — again, which seemed excessive parental contact. It crossed my mind that they were helping her plot how to snare Jared, thrilled that she’d met a man who wasn’t Brian. Or maybe she hadn’t reconciled with her parents at all and she was doing something else entirely. I never assume someone is telling me the truth, it’s too easy not to.

  Jared was off doing something to save the planet.

  They would both be home after dinner. They were very emphatic about that — after dinner. The pseudo family dinners had grown strained, but no one wanted to admit the shared meals were forced and burdensome. We had nothing in common. Noreen had gotten herself a job in an elderly care facility and there’s not much to be said about that over dinner. Jared was often engaged in the practice of silence at mealtime. I couldn’t discuss my job since they thought I was spending my days ringing up sales in a department store, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell stories from my past. We were a bunch of misfits. Maybe we belonged together after all.

  That morning I’d gone for a ten mile run and my muscles were feeling pleasantly utilized. After a shower, I put on jeans and a white tank top over a lace-trimmed navy blue silk bra. I left my hair to dry naturally rather than standing in front of the round mirror Noreen had hung over my dresser. It was about six inches too low, forcing me to hold a partial plié in order to see the top of my head. I was certain she’d hung it too low on purpose.

  I opened all the windows and doors in my room and the great room. It was a spectacular day — all blue sky and sweet-smelling air, classic rock music drifting out the open window of a house two doors down. They were playing it too loud in a neighborly way, so that everyone could enjoy it without being blasted out of their own thoughts. If you didn’t like classic rock, you’d have a different reaction, but most people do like it. That’s why it’s classic.

  I went outside and opened the gate to the side yard. I walked around the patch of dirt. As far as I could tell, despite all the effort every weekend, there were still a fair number of rather large rocks, and the turned over soil revealed thousands of smaller stones. Since Noreen had a garden there before we’d moved in, it made no sense that the area was in such poor shape. Maybe that’s why the garden had been short-lived — she hadn’t prepped it before planting.

  Either Jared was overwhelmed with all the work, or his interests had moved on. Those awkward dinners made him less inclined to want to eat at home, so I suppose there was no need for a vegetable garden.

  It’s a contradiction to open all the windows and doors, inviting fresh air into the house, then return to the bedroom for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, but that’s what I did.

  I dragged a turquoise Adirondack chair out of the garage, put it in front of the open gate leading to the dirt patch, and lit a cigarette. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sky. The sun was warm, but there was enough of a breeze to keep me from feeling as if I was baking my lips into crispy strips of meat. The breezy warmth offered false security. The sun is eating away at your epidermis even when it’s veiled by fog or its heat wafts away on a strong wind. Still, it’s easy to forget, and you want to forget, on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon when your roommates are far away and won’t be intruding on your peace of mind until after dinner.

  When the first cigarette was gone, I went inside and poured a glass of Pinot Grigio.

  I returned to my chair lit another cigarette, took a quick puff and a sip of wine, and settled back.

  The glass of wine was half finished when a pewter Boxster with the roof down pulled onto the gravel strip in front of the house. A thin guy with dirty blonde hair, shaved up slightly on the back and sides, hanging over his sunglasses in the front, climbed out of the car. He wore a pale green t-shirt, army green cargo shorts, and black canvas shoes without socks. There was something about his slender build and hair color that gave the impression he could be Noreen’s twin. He looked about the same age, possibly a bit younger.

  He pulled a phone out of his pocket, tapped it a few times, and dropped it back inside without looking to make sure his aim was correct. Impressive.

  He stared at the house, started up the path, then appeared to notice me for the first time. He waved and headed toward the front door.

  I sat forward in my chair. “Can I help you?”

  He made an abr
upt left turn and crossed the pale, crisp lawn to where I was sitting. “Where’s Noreen?”

  “Can I tell her who’s calling?”

  He lifted his sunglasses, tilted his head, and studied me, his gaze sweeping quickly from the top of my head where my hair was piled in a floppy knot to my bare toes, noting the glass of wine and the cigarette. “Is she home?”

  “No.”

  “When will she be back?”

  Despite his abrupt manner and his obvious cataloging of everything about me, he seemed easy-going. Not someone I should worry about. No alarms went off. “After dinner.”

  “What time is that?”

  I took a drag on my cigarette and turned my head to blow out the smoke. “Not sure. Before dark, probably.”

  “And who are you, pretty lady?”

  I blushed. And he noticed.

  It was totally stupid. His comment was stupid and my reaction was stupid. He wasn’t even that good looking. Nice enough, but not like…Jared, for example. This guy was a little on the skinny side. He was tall and he had a nice smile, a little uncertain, like Noreen’s. There was nothing remarkable about him. Except maybe the Boxster. He didn’t seem like a Boxster type, not that I can define what that type is. His question was so old-fashioned, slightly aggressive, and it made me feel like a giggly fourteen-year-old. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who doesn’t react if a man says she’s pretty. You despise yourself for reacting, but it happens. Unless the guy is a total creep, and even then you react — with disgust and a modicum of anger. This guy was not a creep at all. “I asked you first.”