Right Next Door

by Leah Montgomery

  Right Next Door

  A Novel

  Leah Montgomery

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  My sincere thanks

  About the Author

  Also By

  Of all the things you choose in life, you don’t get to choose what your nightmares are. You don’t pick them; they pick you.

  —John Irving

  Chapter One

  I stare in disbelief.

  My heart thuds. My mind reels.

  It’s him.

  It’s really him.

  I still can’t believe that, after all this time, I finally found him.

  From the dim interior of my car, I track him as he walks through the living room of his house. I watch his shadow move behind the artfully drawn sheers. Watch it pass the regal grandfather clock. Skirt the plush sofa. Watch it appear and disappear in one wedge of the dining room window before he ducks into a room hidden from my view.

  Hot tears burn the backs of my eyes. I resist them, squeezing my lids shut. I begin my mantra—I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  He doesn’t deserve my tears. Not one more of them.

  I’ve told myself that dozens and dozens of times—over coffee, at the grocery store, in line at the bank. And at every victim support group meeting I attended. I would listen as people around the circle told their tale, and when it came to me, I would smile a wobbly smile and say my piece. Hi, my name is Shannon Vogle. I was a victim of…of… My wavering voice would fail me, I’d tell myself I would not cry, I would not cry, I would not cry. But I would cry, and they would move on to another person, and no one ever got to hear my story.

  That’s probably best, though. My story could’ve gotten someone killed.

  But now, today, after all this time, my tears don’t fall. My eyes clear. And they burn with purpose.

  I force myself to focus on the rage, and on the satisfaction that rests just beneath it.

  I found him.

  I actually found him.

  It’s surreal. Even as I gaze into his home, into the place where he feels safe and undiscovered, part of me can’t believe I found him. There was a time when I didn’t think I would. There was even a time when I didn’t try. When I could hardly find the will to drag myself out of bed. But, in the end, I couldn’t give up. There was too much at stake. Weeks passed, but rather than dulling my need to find him, time only sharpened it. Too many late nights crying myself to sleep, and too many early mornings hoping it was all a bad dream.

  Going to bed in devastation.

  Waking up to desolation.

  That became my new reality, and a reality like that can do things to your mind. Strange things. Awful things. It can turn a nightmare into an obsession.

  And it did.

  He made himself my nightmare.

  I made him my obsession.

  Once weeks and weeks of tears dried, fury set in. Scorching, tormenting fury. And desperation. And in the mad swirl of it, a new woman emerged.

  I used to be easy-going. I loved to laugh, loved to love. I had no idea what I was capable of. I found out, though. I found out in a dark, dark room with no sound and no choice. I found out what I could do, what I would do if I was backed into a corner. Now I have to live with that, with what I’ve done. Every day. But I’m not the one who should be suffering sleepless nights and anxiety attacks. He is the one who deserves all that.

  All that and more.

  So much more.

  Slowly, my nightmares turned into dreams, dreams of finding him, of running into him and exacting a brutal and fitting revenge. Of taking back my life and all that is dear to me. I began to wake with dried tears on a smiling face and wrath in my heart. No visions of sugarplums danced in my head. No, only visions of hurting him. Hurting him like he’d hurt me. Taking from him like he’d taken from me. So I started writing things down, things I remembered. No detail was too small, no fact too insignificant. Anything that pertained to him, to that ordeal, to that nightmare, I wrote down. When he took me, where he kept me, everything he said, that last night and how he dropped me off—I recorded everything that came to mind until I had enough to start a search.

  And search, I did.

  I searched until I found him.

  It took me ten months, but I’m finally looking at the man who shattered my world. Who left me alive, but not really.

  He destroyed my life.

  Now I will destroy his.

  I can’t forget what he did to me.

  He’ll never forget what I’m about to do to him.

  Chapter Two

  LATE MAY, 2019

  * * *

  “It’s crooked.”

  At John’s observation, Marcy leans back as much as she dares and narrow her eyes on the picture. “How can you even see it from down there?” She glances at her husband who’s standing at the foot of the ladder with both arms wrapped loosely around her legs. His view is clearly compromised.

  He grins up at her. “I figured if you thought it was crooked, you’d stay up there.”

  “And why would you want me to do that?”

  “So I can hold my wife’s gorgeous legs and stare at her even gorgeouser ass a little longer.”

  Marcy returns his grin. “‘Gorgeouser’?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a new word. It means ‘deliciously round, like an apple’.”

  She lays a hand to her chest and bats her lashes. “This ol’ thing?” She wriggles her hips.

  John angles his head and sinks his teeth into her left butt cheek. It’s a teasing bite, but hard enough to send a tingle shooting to Marcy’s nipples. They pucker under the thin material of her shirt. John notices. Of course. Men and their ever-vigilant eyes.

  One dark brow peaks in interest before John brings his gaze back to his wife’s. He doesn’t have to say a word for her to know what he’s thinking. She knows that look. She’d recognize it from across a crowded room. After nearly a dozen years of marriage, Marcy can practically read John’s mind. And the thoughts he’s having right now…they’re even easier to discern. They show in his clear blue eyes like words written on parchment.

  With one sharp tug, he pulls her off the ladder and catches her in strong arms. Marcy laces her fingers together behind his neck.

  “You happy?” he asks.

  “I am. Are you?”

  He nods. “I am.”

/>   “I’m glad.”

  “I’m always happy if you’re happy. And you seem really happy here.”

  The word finally hangs in the air between them like a big red balloon. It’s almost as discernible as the feel of her husband’s arms.

  “That’s because I am.” She rub her lips across his.

  John growls in approval.

  Marcy warms to his mood, which isn’t hard on a day like today. John surprised her when he came in this morning. He’d been in St. Louis for a week for a big conference, and she hadn’t expected him back until tomorrow. He’d kissed her awake to show her the painting leaned up against the bedroom wall. It was an original print by an artist they’d seen at an exhibit in Austin. They moved shortly thereafter, but that hasn’t stopped Marcy from eyeing this particular piece during her biweekly visits to the gallery’s website.

  She hadn’t planned to do any more than watch if from afar. Marcy’s not comfortable spending that kind of money no matter how many promotions her husband lands. She took a cut in pay when they moved to South Carolina, and her salary has always been her built-in, non-negotiable spending limit. They’ve never really need her income, but she isn’t the type to sit at home and spend John’s money while he travels the globe to earn it. So, they’d made a pact years ago that she would buy all the extras with her money. And six months of her salary here in South Carolina wouldn’t allow for such a painting.

  Before she could argue, her husband had cut her off with lips still pressed to hers. “Don’t argue. It’s an early anniversary present.”

  Their anniversary is another month away, but John knows Marcy well enough to know precisely how to work around her objections. Claiming early anniversary present backed her into a corner. She would’ve sounded ungrateful if she’d protested, and he knew she’d never risk that. Not that she really wanted to protest anyway. She was thrilled with his gift, especially since she wouldn’t buy it herself. John knew that, too. They can read each other like open books. He knew how she’d react just as surely as she knows what’s on his mind right now, something particularly naughty in nature.

  He growls again and Marcy laughs. “Is that your way of asking for more?”

  He grunts once.

  With an amused shake of her head, she kisses him again. Within seconds, their teasing turns to something a little more serious. Playful pecks become long, luxurious explorations of mouth and tongue, and the heat between them quickly transforms into something that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

  By the time John lifts his head, desire is etched in every handsome line of his face, and Marcy is left breathless. The thought rolls through her mind that it’s good to be wanted so much. Still, after all these years. Though they’ve only been married for ten years next month, they’ve been together fifteen, since they were both fresh-faced sixteen year olds. Many couples would’ve been divorced by now. High school sweethearts don’t often stand the test of time, but John and Marcy are as committed to each other today as they were when they said their vows in front of the justice of the peace at Ashbrook County courthouse.

  John’s voice is a sexy grumble when he mutters, “You know, I don’t think we ever christened this rug.”

  Having moved in only two months ago, Marcy hasn’t gotten around to shopping for a coffee table to complete the grouping of furniture in the living room. Although she’s loath to admit it, the unfinished space needles her each time she comes down the stairs and sees the yawning space. That’s one thing that she’s had to temper since the birth of their daughter—her controlling, perfectionist tendencies. It’s not a good combination when one has a special needs child. John, on the other hand, has always been laid back, the perfect foil to her high-strung nature, so Marcy has been able to learn from the best.

  “That is an awfully big gaping hole, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Shamefully big.”

  “And it is pretty tempting, isn’t it?”

  “So, so tempting.”

  “And as a married couple, christening every surface in the house is the only responsible thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “It’s how we maintain such an iron-clad union.” John’s expression is comically solemn.

  She grins. “If it wouldn’t traumatize Caroline if she came down and caught us, I’d take you up on that offer right now.”

  “She’s upstairs playing in her room. We’d hear her coming down the hall long before we scarred her for life.”

  “Probably, but…”

  “And you know as well as I do the likelihood that she’ll come down without being coerced is extremely slim.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  John gives up after the last objection. “Then how about a little preview?”

  John is bending his head back toward his wife’s when a voice clears behind them. Marcy gasps, and John whirls them toward the door. A man is standing a few feet away. The handle of a basket, contents draped in a gingham cloth, dangles from his fingers. He’s watching them closely, his stare unabashedly direct. Intent. Almost creepy.

  Marcy’s stomach gives a squeeze of unease. She is the first to speak, her voice cool and polite. “May I help you?”

  That seems to jar him out of his thoughts and he quickly averts his eyes. As he should’ve done right away, but didn’t.

  “Sorry. The, uh, the door was open. I knocked, but…” Now he’s stammering and awkward, which is more appropriate considering the situation. “I’m Mark Halpern, your new neighbor.”

  John lets Marcy’s legs slide down until her feet are on the floor. Together, they move forward. John extends his hand. “No problem. I’m John. John Stanley. This is my wife, Marcy.”

  The men shake hands and then Mark Halpern turns his sheepish cobalt gaze to Marcy. “It’s nice to meet you, Marcy. Sorry about the…” He nods back toward the door.

  She waves him off. Marcy’s still uneasy, but she’s willing to chalk it up to the interruption itself rather than the odd look she glimpsed in his eyes as he watched them. “Don’t apologize. I probably didn’t push it hard enough to close,” she confesses, even though she’s fairly certain she closed the door snugly when she came back in from collecting the newspaper.

  “Ours does the same thing. You have to slam it, which is great for pictures.” His gaze darts to the recently added print behind their heads.

  John smiles. “It wasn’t straight anyway.” He slides a look of twinkling satisfaction Marcy’s way.

  “Hush,” she replies, elbowing him.

  Looking away from her husband, Marcy’s smiles at the neighbor. “You’d think after a month we’d have figured out all these little things, but I guess we’re still learning.”

  “It takes a while.”

  “It sure does.” She clears her throat. “By the way, John and I have been meaning to come over and introduce ourselves, but you know how hectic it is at first.”

  “No apologies. We knew you’d be busy for a while, which is why we waited.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Just a couple of days longer than you, I think.”

  “Are you settled in?”

  “Most of our furniture got here before we did, so it hasn’t been too bad.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  Mark glances at his watch. “Jill should be here any second. She has to work, so she was driving over. She whipped up these orange cranberry muffins last—”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” comes a quiet voice from behind Mark. He turns and steps to one side, making room for his wife. “Sorry, sorry. I’m Jill.”

  Marcy’s first impression of the couple next door is “mismatched”. Mark, with his longish blond hair and dark blue eyes, is extremely attractive and built like an underwear model. He looks like an ex-surfer or something. Jill, on the other hand, is…bland. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown glasses. Gray blouse, gray slacks, gray shoes. She’s like a drab winter day. Average at best. Not that there’s anything wrong with average. It’s just unus
ual to see average coupled with a guy like Mark Halpern. Maybe Jill hasn’t always looked this way, but at the moment, she resembles a woman who has given up on life.

  Instantly, Marcy feels sorry for her. With a spouse like Mark, it can’t be easy being Jill Halpern.

  Marcy steps forward to greet her, offering a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jill.”

  Jill leans forward to accept it. “The pleasure is mine.” Jill’s eyes smile into Marcy’s for a few seconds. As she pulls away, her eyes flicker toward Mark and away again. It happens quickly enough to miss, but Marcy doesn’t miss it. She’s the type that notices everything.

  Mark drapes an arm over Jill’s shoulders, and Jill leans into his side. More than a simple, intimate gesture, the action seems possessive somehow. Domineering. Although, to be fair, it could just be her imagination run amok. It’s been known to happen. In fact, Marcy knows if she were to mention it to John, he’d say she imagined it.

  Marcy sees everything—true, sometimes even things that aren’t there—while John sees nothing. She’s hyper vigilant and he’s oblivious. He’s always called her nosey, but in a nice way if there is such a thing. They’ve had some variation of the same conversation dozens of times throughout the course of their marriage.

  “So I like to know what goes on around us. Is that such a bad thing?”