Right Next Door

by Leah Montgomery

  “That’s what I thought.” He gives her another peck and then pulls away. “I’m gonna get the mail. Stretch my legs.”

  Marcy instantly feels a little tingle of tension invigorate her own muscles. She’s become more cautious and nervous than curious when it comes to the mail. Although it has been several days since the smashing of the box, several quiet days, Marcy still gets a little charge of apprehension at mail time.

  Her foot bobs anxiously until John returns a few minutes later with several envelopes and a package. He hands the package to her.

  “Oh, this must be the sign I ordered.”

  “Sign?”

  Marcy doesn’t bother responding. Rather, she tears into the box and removes a wooden plaque and an extendable metal holder for it that sticks into the ground. She holds up the sign for him to see.

  “Why do we need a sign with our last name on it?”

  “Because it’s pretty.” Marcy turns the sign around so she can look at it. It doesn’t only announce who resides at 6250 Larkspur; it adds a bit of beauty to the mailbox area. John replaced their crushed box with one similar to it—black wrought iron with scrollwork—and Marcy was able to find a customizable sign maker online that agreed to produce a sign for her, based on a sketch she sent. He’d done it perfectly. The wooden rectangle boasts THE STANLEYS in large calligraphy in the center and the sign guy etched some flowers into one corner of it that trail off into some vines that run along the bottom.

  “You’ve never wanted ‘pretty’ at the mailbox before. What gives?”

  Marcy sighs in irritation, lowering the sign to glower at her husband. “I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m telling you, there’s something up with you know who.” She tips her head back toward the Halpern house. “I don’t think it was a coincidence that we got their mail and then all of a sudden someone smashes our mailbox. That’s too much to be a coincidence.”

  “Marcy,” John begins, his tone soft with the kind of tolerance one has for their child when his or her imagination has run amok. “The neighbor is not a criminal. It was probably just some dumb kids. You know how they are.”

  “In this neighborhood?”

  “Probably because it’s this neighborhood. Bigger chance of getting caught. Bigger rush. You know how teenagers can be.”

  “Well, agree to disagree. This sign makes me feel better and it looks good. It’s a win-win. You can’t really argue with that.”

  John chuckles lightly, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t dare argue with that.”

  Marcy smiles, victorious. “Good. Would you mind getting the rubber mallet from the garage so I can go set this?”

  “My wife…” he mumbles on his way out of the room. He returns two minutes later with the mallet and hands it to Marcy. “Want me to do it?”

  “Nah. I’ll get some aggression out. Better out than in, right?” John smiles, but makes no comment. Marcy pauses to push up onto her tiptoes and kiss his chin. “I was kidding. I just don’t know which side I want to put it on yet. That’s all.”

  “Okay.”

  Marcy can tell he’s not convinced, but she doesn’t address it. She’s too eager to get outside and get the sign installed, hoping it will make her feel more at ease. Whether her imagination or not, lately she’s had a sense of foreboding she can’t shake. It’s kind of like the little rain cloud that follows Charlie Brown in the comics—just a little shadow over her normally sunny life that she can’t seem to outrun. She’s optimistic, however, that the sign will help. Both letters had been hand delivered and put into her mailbox by mistake (both had been printed with only Mark’s name and their address, no return information and no postal mark). Hopefully, the deliverer will see her sign next time—if there is a next time—and realize the box doesn’t belong to the Halperns. It should be a simple and effective fix. Unfortunately, there isn’t a simple or effective fix for the suspicions she now harbors about her next door neighbor.

  With the sign hung and swinging slightly from the two hooks that support it on the stand, Marcy turns to walk back to her house. The sun shines brightly into her face and she squints up at it. She can’t help that her eyes dart toward that top window at the Halpern residence. The curtains aren’t moving today, but Marcy could swear there’s a shadow behind them. She blinks several times to clear the spots from her vision, and when she looks again, the shadow is gone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I woke screaming. Not in pain or thirst.

  In disbelief. Horrific disbelief.

  Dalton.

  My brain was fuzzy again. No doubt he’d drugged me after giving me my ultimatum. But even drugs couldn’t dull what I now knew.

  The bastard who kidnapped me, who took me from the airport parking deck and brought me here, the man who was nearly starving me, also had my son. My sweet, precious, funny, bright, helpless little boy.

  Images of what he might have been doing to Dalton rattled through me. Thoughts of how scared and vulnerable my child was rolled through my brain. Over and over again. Relentlessly. Wave after wave after wave.

  Worst-case scenarios and gut-churning clips from movies battered my mind. In all of them was Dalton’s face. My baby boy’s face. Even though I couldn’t see him well, I could imagine all too well what that face looked like. Red. Streaked with tears. Terrified. It seemed so real.

  Too real.

  I tried to put the images out of my mind, to make it stop, but I couldn’t. It was like being haunted. And the ghost was uncontrollable.

  Several times, I threw up. Small bits dog food and tiny puddles water I couldn’t afford to lose. It wasn’t long before nothing came up. It was just a heaving of my muscles as I lay on my side, in the fetal position, praying for mercy.

  Maybe he’d used a different agent this time. It felt different. Everything—my surroundings, my memories, my thoughts—had a nightmarish quality. Like a bad trip. A really bad trip. It was all as confusing as it was agonizingly clear. Especially the part about Dalton. The sound of my son’s voice as he screamed for me... It was so sharp and distinct, even now. Later. After.

  In my thoughts, I heard him so clearly I’d called out to him. More than once.

  But I didn’t hear him. Not again, because he wasn’t there.

  Someone had taken him to God knew where, to do God knew what, and I was stuck in a padded prison, helpless to do anything about it.

  My stomach heaved again. I rolled further onto my side and pressed my cheek to the concrete.

  That’s when I heard the moan.

  That’s when I knew I wasn’t alone.

  The sound, it seemed…wounded somehow. Tentatively, I reached out. Fingers shaking, stomach in a knot. I stretched until I felt...something. Something solid.

  I jerked my hand back. Recoiled like a startled cat.

  Questions, questionsquestionsquestions raced through my mind. Who? How? Why?

  All questions and no answers.

  Was this even real? Or was it the drugs talking? The drugs and my subconscious mind?

  I took a deep breath. Tried to ground myself. In the room, in reality. I felt the body-temperature air. The hard concrete. The pain on my hipbone. I pressed into that sore spot, into that pain. If I was alseep, I wanted to wake up. And if I wasn’t...

  I reached out again. Boldly this time. Like I knew what I’d feel. When my fingertips met resistance, I applied pressure. Just enough to test, to confirm.

  It was a person. For sure. Warm, solid. Dense, but not overly muscular.

  I backed off. Rubbed with the pads of my fingers. Lightly, back and forth.

  Material, high quality. Maybe silk. It covered a shoulder.

  I tapped and danced my way along. Down, down, down.

  It covered an arm. A forearm. A wrist.

  A delicate wrist.

  A bound wrist.

  Duct tape. Wound tight enough to bite into what little flesh covered bone.

  The skin was soft. I smelled a hint of vanilla. All signs pointed to this
being a woman.

  Kill her, he’d said.

  Her.

  I wiggled my thumb under the tape, tried to loosen it. No luck. I was too weak or it was too tight. Maybe both.

  Her fingers were cold when I touched them. She didn’t move. Didn’t jump or jerk or flinch like she felt the contact. I wondered if they were numb. And if she was alive.

  Kill her.

  My guess was that she was very much alive.

  I worked my way back up her forearm, over the ball of her shoulder and the ridge of her clavicle, to her neck. Strands of hair tickled my fingers. I turned my hand, pinched a lock between my thumb and first finger. It was long and coarse. Thick.

  I felt along her jawline, met with another restraint. This one was leather. It crossed her face. Slashed over her cheekbones, ran under her chin. It held something in her mouth.

  It was a ball gag.

  Her breath brushed my knuckles. Puffed steadily from her nose. Deep and even. She was asleep. Or unconscious. She must’ve moaned because of something in her head. She definitely wasn’t making a sound now. She was silent, motionless. Vulnerable.

  I knew how that felt.

  I tried to remove the gag from her mouth, but the leather wouldn’t stretch. I worked my way around the straps to where they joined. Found the closure. Two rings held together with a tiny luggage lock. There was no opening it without a key.

  This guy...he was smart. He didn’t want us talking. Talking could lead to planning. Planning could lead to mutiny. Mutiny could lead to escape. And he couldn’t have that. No, he wanted us here, together, for a reason. A reason I knew.

  He wanted this woman dead.

  And he wanted me to kill her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Saturdays have always been Marcy’s favorite day of the week. Since she was a little girl, Saturdays were days to be looked forward to, cherished. Even before Caroline was born, she and John used their Saturdays as play days. Road trips they wanted to take, sights they wanted to see, food they wanted to try—more often than not, those happened on a Saturday. Marcy has carried on that tradition in Caroline’s life, making Saturdays days for fun exploits, frivolous activities, and foods that couldn’t in any context be considered healthy. Saturdays regularly consisted of waffles for breakfast or pizza for dinner, and mornings of cartoons or evenings of board games. At least that had been the case until Caroline took a turn for the worse. More and more, she was becoming less able to participate in activities they’d previously enjoyed as a family. And more and more, Saturdays were becoming something Marcy mourned rather than treasured.

  But I’m no quitter. That is Marcy’s new mantra for most everything in her life. Things aren’t going smoothly in her marriage? She refuses to quit trying. Things aren’t progressing with her child? She refuses to give up hope. Things aren’t becoming clear with her neighbor? She refuses to stop digging. Quitting is just not in her.

  Marcy is in the middle of building a new and elaborate play mat for Caroline. She’s making it from colorful, padded squares that fit together like puzzle pieces. She’s already placed eight of them together in the center of the living room floor, right where the sun pours onto the carpet all afternoon if she leaves the front door open. Now, she’s drawing a circuitous road of sorts, in black permanent marker. It twists and winds across the squares like a lazy country road. She can already picture exactly how it will look when she adds the miniature trees and structures she ordered from the craft store. She’s going to make Caroline a little town in the living room in hopes of luring her downstairs more often. She even bought some tiny fencing and some plastic horses. Caroline was fascinated by horses when she was smaller. Marcy is hopeful that Caroline will rediscover her love of them through this project, but if not, at least she can drive her car through the “town.”

  Ever the optimist, Marcy is convinced this will be the thing that brings Caroline back to her, one hundred percent.

  With the makeshift road sketched out, Marcy digs into the box that arrived yesterday. She starts placing trees here and there, dots the landscape with a bright red barn for the horses. Last, she adds a schoolhouse, a court house, and several modest homes.

  When she sits back to appraise her work, she can’t help smiling. As a child, she would’ve loved to play in such a place, miniature or not.

  “Caroline! Come down here and see what I made you.”

  Caroline doesn’t answer, of course, but John does. Marcy hears his voice call from the vicinity of the garage. “Were you talking to me?”

  “Not unless your name is Caroline,” she replies, her tone light and teasing.

  After a short pause, she hears footsteps followed by her husband’s face appearing at the corner of the kitchen doorway. “You getting smart with me?”

  She recognizes the twinkle in his eye. John is in a good mood at least eighty percent of the time. He’s the perfect yin to her high-strung yang. “So what if I am?”

  One dark brow shoots up. “Don’t tease me.”

  She recognizes that look, too, and giggles in response. “I thought you were teasing me.”

  “Oh, you’d know if I was teasing you.”

  “Are you sure? It’s been so long, I’m not sure I’d remember.”

  At that, John comes fully into the room, stomps over to Marcy, grips her upper arms, and hauls her up against his chest. There, he plants a passionate kiss on her mouth, leaves her breathless when he pulls away. She’s always loved how he could melt her bones with a single look or kiss. After all this time, after all that has happened, that hasn’t changed.

  “I stand corrected,” she admits breathily.

  “Damn right you do.” John winks as he releases her. Marcy sits back down at her project and John leans over her, taking it in. “This looks great. I think she’ll love it.”

  Marcy looks up and back at him. “You do? Really?” She searches his face for sincerity, for encouragement. She finds all that she needs.

  “I really do.”

  In some corner of her heart, she’s been holding her breath, worrying that even this won’t bring Caroline out of her shell. But if John thinks she will love it, that’s enough to make Marcy exhale in relief. “Good.” After a few seconds, she remembers that her daughter didn’t answer her, so she calls again, a bit louder. “Caroline, come down here please.”

  John kisses the top of her head and walks back toward the garage. Marcy surveys her “town” and awaits Caroline. A knock at the door startles her. She twists around to find Jill Halpern smiling at her through the glass storm door. Marcy waves her in.

  “Am I interrupting?” Jill asks.

  “Of course not. You’re always welcome. I was just finishing a new play area for Caroline. What do you think?”

  Jill walks over and nods in approval. “I think that’s one lucky little girl. This is great.”

  Marcy beams with pleasure and pride. She applies herself to being a great mother, a great wife, a great friend, and a great neighbor. She’s happy when her efforts are recognized. “Thank you.” She spins on the floor to face Jill, points toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”

  “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to pop over and apologize for not being in touch this week. It’s been so crazy at work, and Mark has been gone, and…ugh!” She lets her head drop back in exasperation.

  “No apology necessary. I know how it is. When John travels, everything is chaotic. But when he’s home, it’s chaotic in a different way.”

  “Right?”

  “I get it. We’re kindred spirits. No sorry needed.” Marcy smiles over at Jill.

  Jill sniffs. “Oooo, it smells good in here. What is that?”

  “It’s a blend of essential oils that I make. To help calm. It really works wonders. If I’m not wearing it, I’m diffusing it.”

  “It’s a very distinctive scent. Kind of like perfume, only better.”

  “I’m glad you like it. The next time I make a batch, I’ll send you a little bottle.”


  “Oh you don’t have to bother with that. I was just—”

  “No arguments. It wouldn’t be a bother at all.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well then, thank you. That would be great. My nerves could use it.” She pauses briefly before continuing. “So, the reason I stopped by is that I noticed your new sign.”

  “Sign?”

  “At the mailbox.”

  “Oh, right.” Marcy laughs lightly. “How quickly I forget.”

  “Where did you get it? I just love it.”

  “I ordered it. I can text you the link if you want it.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Let me grab my phone.” Marcy starts to stand.

  Jill holds out a hand to stop her. “No, don’t bother. There’s no rush. You can send it later. Finish what you were doing.”

  “I was just setting out the last pieces of ‘Carolina Acres’. It’s what I’m naming it in hopes that it’ll make it more appealing to Caroline.”

  “That’s absolutely adorable.”

  Marcy shrugs, purposely casual so that her pride isn’t obvious. She tries very hard to be a good mother, and she’s fairly confident in her abilities. Whether they work…well, that is a different story. Marcy may be fighting a losing battle. Caroline’s mind may have plans of its own that Marcy can’t influence, no matter how creative or persistent. Defeat may be in her future. And if that’s the case, Marcy will come to grips with it. Eventually. But she still hopes she doesn’t have to.

  “I would’ve loved it at her age.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  When Marcy looks up from the makeshift town, Jill is staring at her with an odd expression. Jill isn’t easy to read to begin with. Between her less-than-gregarious personality and her glasses and bangs, it’s hard to figure her out. Marcy can’t help wondering if she does that on purpose so people won’t know what’s going on in her life. Specifically her home life. Bangs like those and glasses like those would go a long way toward concealing the better part of a black eye.