The Girl Next Door

by Lisa Aurello

  “Grrr.” Mel raked both her hands through her hair. It was just no use arguing with him. Detective Fitzgibbons was not about to be talked out of his conviction about Jane. He had his cop’s intuition about people, and he obviously put a lot of stock in it. Not wasting any more of her breath, she left it at a glower. He obviously felt no such limitation.

  He was leaning against the counter, staring into space, but he kept his mouth running. “Since I met Jane, I always felt something was off about her. My cop sense told me so, and I always listen to it. It’s never let me down, good or bad.”

  OK, Mel was so done with the discussion. She knew that her friend—knew with not only her heart but also her logical mind—wasn’t a coldblooded killer. Mel rarely fell back on her emotions for important decisions—she was a left-brainer, a person who relied on facts and figures. And in this case, those facts and figures just didn’t add up. Or added up too well. For Detective Fitzgibbons with his cop’s suspicious brain it was a slam dunk, but Mel was two steps ahead of every conclusion he drew. She knew that the so-called evidence had to be manufactured, but she didn’t know how to convince the big lug—or anyone else for that matter. For God’s sake, why the hell couldn’t the stubborn bastard see it the way she did? She was frustrated by his complete unwillingness to consider Jane being innocent. She felt insulted too. “Plain and simple, you said?” she huffed. “Nothing about this is plain and simple.”

  The coffee had finished its drip. He dragged his gaze to her, breaking out of his hypnotic stare into space. “Yes, Melanie, it is simple. Think horse, not zebra. Ever hear that?”

  “No, it isn’t.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Simple.”

  Rob threw up his hands, his voice growing in volume. “For fuck’s sake, sometimes you don’t have to look for complicated webs of intrigue; sometimes the truth is simple and staring you right in the face. Trust me, Jane’s guilty as sin. Wrap your head around that.”

  “Is there any other evidence?” Mel knew she was pushing him since he shouldn’t divulge details of the case to anyone, least of all to someone so close to the suspect. And he’d already given her a lot, way more than he should have. But she and Rob had gotten close, and she hoped he would trust her that far.

  “Yes, there is,” Rob said. A trace of apology crept into his tone. “I can’t divulge any more, though. Not right now. Most of what I told you is already a matter of public record and Ms. Jensen has been made aware of it. But some is still being withheld pending trial. You understand, right?”

  “You said you don’t believe a word she says. Do you think she engineered her own near-fatal car accident?”

  His temper seemed to be winding down, his green eyes dulling with fatigue, but Mel couldn’t allow herself to care. He was the one on the warpath; he was the one making demands on her. “No,” he began as he reached for the coffee pot. “Do you mind?”

  She gestured for him to go ahead and help himself.

  Pouring his coffee, he picked up the thread of the answer. “I think that was unexpected. Two eyewitnesses say another car cut her off.”

  Mel got the milk and half-and-half out of the refrigerator and placed them on the counter near his cup. She watched as he fixed his coffee—meticulously pouring the cream and sugar, stirring it for long seconds. Mel was far too impatient to spend that much time preparing her coffee. But that was Rob: plodding and methodical. Meticulous even. Hunching her shoulders, she chafed her hands up and down her arms as another shudder swept through her. But the cold was filtering more through her soul than her body. Jane was in jail, for God’s sake, and Mel felt entirely helpless. She needed to get rid of him and try to help her poor friend.

  She rubbed her eyes and only afterward realized she’d already put on her makeup. Fuck. Probably looked like a raccoon now. “Look, Rob… I’m having a really hard time with this whole thing. Jane’s essentially a very sweet person, and I cannot see her doing harm to anyone. As far as I can tell, she’s never even met Cate Caldwell.”

  His callused hand landed heavily on her shoulder and instantly annoyed her—it felt patronizing. “People become obsessed. She had a miserable time of it in high school and pinned her focus on this guy. Obsession isn’t rational, you know?

  Plucking his hand from her shoulder, she went to put away the milk. While he drank his coffee both of them were silent. There wasn’t much left to say really. After taking a few gulps, he drained the rest of it, then stepped over to the sink to rinse out the cup. He was almost out the door when he made his final remarks.

  “For argument’s sake, let’s say she is this delusional psycho stalker who kills the wife of her object of obsession. That makes her a dangerous person, and you could be in her sights next if you piss her off. I’m actually worried about your safety spending too much time with her. Think about it.

  “And do me a favor, Melanie. While you’re thinking, take twenty-four hours to also think on giving up contact with her for the sake of our relationship if not your own safety. I think we could be really good together—long-term. I know it. If you do too, maybe you should change your mind about Jane Jensen.”

  He wanted her to take twenty-four hours?

  She didn’t need that much time. Or any time at all. Mel wouldn’t be deserting her friend when she most needed her. Not even for a hot cop she had already fallen hard for.

  Not even for him.

  Chapter 28

  He steered the Porsche neatly into the parking space in front of the office. Just as he turned off the ignition, his phone chimed. He looked at the caller: Kurt Redding. Must’ve heard something on the police scanner. He tapped the button to answer the call.

  “What’s going on, Kurt?”

  “Doing as you asked, bud. The only big thing that came across today was that the cops picked up Jane Jensen, arrested for premeditated murder. She’s being processed now at the big R.”

  “OK. Thanks, Kurt. I owe you a steak dinner.”

  His amused snort came through the line, loud and clear. “Dude, you owe me a helluva lot more than that, but I guess I’ll settle for it. As long as it’s someplace pricey.”

  “You got it. Take care.”

  He disconnected the phone and leaned back, letting the soft leather bucket seat surround him in comfort. Things were working, finally going according to plan. For a little while there he didn’t think they would. They’d spent so much time meticulously planning out every last aspect, only to have the whole damn thing almost get fucked by an off-the-cuff improv. Fortunately, though, it was back on track.

  He closed his eyes and visualized this upcoming business deal going through as planned. It would be a giant coup and would put the company firmly in the black. Everything would all fall into place just as he wanted and planned. He straightened his spine and inhaled from his diaphragm.

  Regardless of the confident image he projected, he felt a drop of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades. Every deal was the same: until the ink was dry on the contract, it could all go south. He’d learned his lessons well and knew that hubris was nearly always tailgated by a fall. Humility and preparation were the tools to achieving success.

  He opened the door and got out of the car. Today’s appointment was with a new banker to discuss a huge mortgage application. If this deal went through their company stood to make some serious coin and a blighted downtown area would get a major facelift. Big win for everyone, and it would make the company even more valuable if and when they sold it. He strode across the lot with crossed fingers and a winning smile.

  Chapter 29

  Jane’s Journal, December

  I’m a killer.

  I’m not a nice person at all. I’m the extreme opposite of nice. I’m a killer.

  That’s what the police are saying. I don’t remember being a killer. I don’t remember paying someone to kill his wife. I don’t even remember his wife.

  But that’s what the police say I did, that’s what the evidence points to. The fact that I hav
e no memory of it is irrelevant, they say. I’m still a killer.

  When I woke up after the accident I was an unknown entity. I won’t lie—it was traumatic to have no idea of my past or present, but… it was also an opportunity to live a brand-new life, to literally reinvent myself. I was operating under the assumption that I was inherently a decent person, capable of doing kindness, and aspiring to bigger and better. Wouldn’t everyone think that?

  Now I’m being told that I’m evil, the worst of the worst, a cold and calculating murderer. That I withdrew money from my bank account to pay a hired killer to murder the wife of a man I was stalking.

  They say I hired a hit man to shoot Cate Caldwell dead. Assuming I did that, how did I even know how to find a hit man, I wonder? Why would I think to do that anyway? It’s not like Mason Caldwell would be interested in me if his wife died. The whole thing made no sense.

  They have me in a holding area with four other women. We’re all attempting to ignore one another and a guard was kind enough to give me a pen and paper to further that end. The room is cold, the walls are a putrid green, and the smell of urine poorly masked by the harsh scent of bleach permeates every corner of the place. On my lap is the gift of a torn-out piece of notebook paper—I don’t have my journal with me. I can barely see what I’m writing—tears are spilling on the page and the ink is running. Would a killer cry at being called one? Maybe I’m not that good a killer and that’s why I’m at Rikers right now.

  The week before I had my accident, I apparently made a large withdrawal from my savings account. Seven thousand dollars. The police have surmised it was part of the payment for the hit. They were looking for more cash—maybe stashed somewhere in my house or maybe in a different account they hadn’t yet tracked down. I just wish I could remember what happened even if it’s bad. To not know whether I’m being falsely accused is a horrible turn of events.

  Maybe I’m being punished for trying to be a new person, a beautiful girl named Janey, instead of fat, ugly, acid-tongued Jane. Maybe the stars had misaligned because for once I felt happy. I know it wasn’t a usual thing for me because it felt so alien, like walking in stiff new shoes.

  Maybe my audacity to think I could lead a happy and successful life was too great an insult to the cosmos.

  I’m starting to think it would have been better if I’d just died in the car accident—me instead of that poor man. He probably had a much better life, was a much better person. Sometimes fate just plays a colossal prank on pathetic humans and we can only laugh while we cry. Me, I’m sick of being the butt of these cosmic practical jokes. But what the hell can I do about it, short of offing myself? I’m too much of a coward to seriously consider that as an option. At least I think I am.

  Then again, we never know what we’re capable of doing until we try.

  I’m deathly afraid to sleep. Not only because I’m in Rikers, though that’s reason enough for anyone. My greater fear, though, is that I’ll dream about killing Cate Caldwell… or worse, remember it. If I have a flashback of paying a killer off like the charges say I did, I don’t know what I’ll do. The idea is right out of scenes from a nightmare.

  I’m also worried. What if I’m not a killer? That means someone targeted me to get the blame, which means that someone is out to get me. If I’m not a killer, it means I have enemies, serious enemies. Maybe they’ll try to kill me, make it look like suicide. Who would question a killer at Rikers facing a life sentence offing herself?

  If I am a killer, maybe I had an accomplice. Maybe that accomplice wants me to get the full blame. Maybe my accomplice will try to kill me. Dead men tell no tales.

  I’m exhausted, mentally, emotionally, and physically… but I cannot close my eyes. I try to stay distracted, listening to other people, sounds, whatever. When there is nothing to focus on, I try to remember lyrics to songs I like.

  Or the lines to poems I remember.

  It usually leads me back to my present reality. Death.

  Do not go gentle into that good night… Dylan Thomas.

  Because I could not stop for Death; he kindly stopped for me… Emily Dickinson.

  Out, out brief candle… Macbeth. Or pretty much anything by Shakespeare—his tragedies, at least.

  This is the end, beautiful friend, the end… The Doors

  Any distraction, no matter how morbid, is better than none. I search my brain for any and all of them so I don’t have to dwell on my current personal crisis.

  Chapter 30

  Mel sat up and punched the pillow as if she meant it before flopping back down onto it. It didn’t help that her small bedroom was stifling from the overactive radiator and ambient light from the street lamps seeped in through stuck-open slats in the shutters covering the casement windows—she had to get her brother to fix them soon. The later it got, the more panicked she became to fall asleep and the more elusive sleep became. It was a vicious cycle. The clock now read 2:58 a.m. and she had to be up at seven to get ready for work. Getting less than seven hours of sleep made her physically ill.

  She’d been at war with the duvet and pillows since eleven last night, maybe dozing off for a few minutes here and there but deep sleep continued to elude her. Her mind was just too busy, crowded with Rob’s ultimatum and Jane’s impossible situation. Poor Jane. Mel couldn’t bear to think about where Jane was sleeping tonight and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it until tomorrow.

  Mel’s plan was to go to work in the morning—get there an hour early—and leave at lunchtime to go see Jane. Meantime, she looked online for the names and numbers for a few criminal attorneys in case Jane needed them. Mel also planned to bring five hundred in cash on the chance that it would be needed for something. She wished she could head over to Rikers first thing but they had a big job scheduled for the morning, and Mel couldn’t be absent, especially with Jane being gone too.

  At 3:13 Mel got up and stomped to the kitchen, swallowing a Benadryl with half a glass of water. She knew she’d be drowsy all day tomorrow, but at least she’d get a few hours of sleep. Finally, about twenty minutes later she went out.

  It felt like she had just fully closed her eyes when the monotone beep of her alarm went off. “Ugh.” She slapped down the snooze button.

  Then she slapped it down two more times. The fourth alarm finally got her out of bed. She dragged herself into the tiny bathroom and turned on the shower. There were plenty of negative things to say about Mel’s West Side apartment but the water pressure wasn’t one of them. Standing under the shower nozzle, the force of the spray nearly pinned her to the back wall of the stall and the hot water massaged her into a much better frame of mind. Though she was operating on about four hours of sleep, she felt decent after the shower.

  Mulling her choices, she stood in the closet for a couple of minutes before selecting a navy skirt and a white sweater. Over her skirt she wore a tartan-plaid fabric cummerbund, navy tights, and her knee-high black boots. She stood in front of her giant mirror and chewed her cheek. Was this a proper outfit for visiting a prison? Mel thought it said professional but not haughty, female but not looking for action. Nodding her approval, she went in search of coffee.

  At a little past noon, Rob showed up at the office to take her out to lunch. He wasn’t aware of her afternoon plans and she wasn’t in the mood to share. When Susan buzzed her to tell her she had a visitor, Mel didn’t expect it to be the detective.

  “Pizza for lunch?” he asked when she strode into reception. He was wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket, and she hated him for looking scrumptious.

  She gave Susan a pointed look. “Remember what I told you this morning? I’ll do that right after lunch.”

  Susan smiled and bobbed her head, and Mel winked. She was a smartie.

  So Rob wanted her answer now, and he wasn’t going to like it. It wasn’t a conversation she ever wanted to have. But Rob had forewarned her—it was the reason he hadn’t wanted to start a sexual relationship with her. Regardless of this outcom
e, though, Mel was glad they did start it. Having that experience was worth whatever pain was headed her way.

  They ate their pizza in virtual silence but as soon as he finished his second slice, he launched into his spiel. “I hate to put you in this position, Melanie,” he said, licking grease off his thumb, “I do, but it’s where we stand right now.”

  She put her pizza down, her appetite going flat. “What am I supposed to do, Rob? Just say, ‘See ya, Jane. I’m dropping out of your life now. Oh, and by the way, good luck in that murder trial coming up on you.’ I can’t do that to her… she has nobody in her corner, not even family.”

  He picked up his soda and guzzled it. His eyes were on the three people at the table next to them who were loud talkers. Mel glared at him, but he didn’t see it.

  She let the silence hang between them, waiting to see how long he could hold out. Picking up his phone, he slid it in his jacket pocket, then plucked his keys from the table. His skin was stretched taut across his face. “Then we stop seeing each other,” he snapped, “at least for the duration of the trial.”

  Now it was Mel who looked away—away from his piercing eyes—leaning back in her seat and hoping he would leave her soon. His presence was oppressive and it was sucking all the energy from her.

  “I already spoke with the prosecutor,” he went on, using his car key to scratch his eyebrow. “To say she wasn’t pleased about our relationship… yeah, like saying hell is mildly tropical. She said it wouldn’t be ideal in any circumstances but the better scenario would be for you to put distance between you and the defendant, stat. For us to continue as we are? The defense attorney would shred me. Though I’m not the arresting officer, I’m the lead detective on the case.”

  “Seems to me since you’re on the side prosecuting Jane and not defending her, your credibility shouldn’t be hurt by dating me. But whatever. Que sera sera.”