The Neighbor (45 page)

I had the impression that of the two of us, I was the one with more experience. Yet it was important for him to take the lead. If I pushed too hard, moved too fast, it would be over. A switch would be thrown and we’d be right back where we had started, strangers who shared a bed.

So I let his fingers dance across my skin, while discovering the lean outline of his ribs beneath my fingers, the ripple of muscle on his sides, the taut feel of his butt. There were indentations across his back, markings of some kind. But if I tried to touch them, he drew back, so I contented myself with threading my fingers through the light whorls of hair on his chest, the broad, solid feel of his shoulders.

I reveled in the feel of his body, and hoped he found some kind of satisfaction in mine. Then he loomed between my legs and I parted them gratefully, arching my hips, taking him into me. At the first moment of penetration, maybe I cried out, maybe I had wanted him that much.

Then he was moving, and I was moving, and we didn’t have to be careful anymore and we didn’t have to be awkward anymore. Everything was as it should be and it all felt right.

I held him afterward. Pressed his head against my shoulder and stroked his hair. He didn’t speak, and there was moisture on his cheeks which could’ve been sweat or maybe something else. I liked lying with him like this, our legs entwined, our breaths co-mingled.

I may have had sex with a lot of men, but I have slept with very few of them, and it felt like I should grant my husband that much.

I fell asleep thinking that family vacation was a positively brilliant idea.

And woke up to the sound of a guttural cry.

My husband was rocking beside me. In the dark, I could feel his movements more than I could see them. He seemed to be rolled into a tight ball, caught in the throes of a nightmare. I reached out a hand to his shoulder. He jerked back.

“Jason?” I whispered.

He moaned lower, rolling away from me.

“Jason?” I tried again, voice louder now, but not too loud, as I didn’t want to wake Ree. “Jason, wake up.”

He rocked and rocked and rocked.

I placed two hands on his back and shook him hard. He went shooting out of bed, scrambling across the room, crashing against a wingback chair, tripping over a standing light.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” he screamed, careening into a corner. “I fucking killed you! You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead.”

I was up out of the bed, hands out as if to brace myself. “Shhh, shhh, shhh. Jason, it’s only a dream. Wake up, sweetheart, please. It’s only a dream.”

I reached for the bedside lamp, clicking it on, hoping the sudden infusion of light would snap him back to his senses.

He turned his face away, grabbing the curtain and holding it across his body as if to shield his nakedness.

“Go away,” he whimpered. “Please, please, please just go away.”

But I didn’t I took one step closer to him. Then another. Willing my husband to wake up, even as I willed my daughter to remain asleep.

Finally, very slowly, he turned his face toward mine.

I sucked in my breath as I gazed at his oversized dark eyes, still dilated by fear, wild with terror. Something clicked in the back of my mind and all the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.

“Oh Jason,” I whispered.

And I realized at that moment that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

| CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR |

The taxi pulled up in front of Aidan’s house slightly after ten
P.M.
Aidan didn’t step out right away. He took his time counting out a wad of wrinkled bills, while covertly studying the surrounding bushes for signs of trouble. Was that hulking shadow Mrs. H.’s rhododendron or another goon from Vito’s garage? What about that dark spot over to the right? More photogs hidden in the trees? What about the entire darkened block, yawning behind him. Maybe somewhere, out there, Jason Jones was ready to finish him off.

Screw it. Just move.

Aidan tossed twelve bucks at the driver, grabbed his laundry, and scrambled from the cab, house keys clutched in hand. He made it up the walkway while the taxi was still idling in place. Aidan dropped the trash bags, jammed the key in the lock, and managed to twist the door open the first time, though his hands were trembling now, and he was so overloaded on adrenaline and fear he could barely function.

He could hear the taxicab revving up, pulling away.
Gotta move, gotta move, gotta move.

He forced the door open, swinging the laundry bags inside, then using his leg to kick the door shut behind him, leaning against it for
good measure while he struggled to work the lock, finally firing it home.

He sagged then, sliding down the door, overcome with relief. He was still alive. No goons had jumped him, no neighbors were picketing his front door, and no photogs were peeking into his windows. The lynch mob had yet to arrive.

He started to laugh, hoarsely, maybe a tad hysterically, because, honest to God, he hadn’t felt this strung out since prison. Except he was a free man now—meaning, what was there to look forward to? When would he ever complete this time served?

He forced himself to stand, picking up his laundry, schlepping the bags down the hall. He needed to pack. He needed to sleep. He needed to get away from here. Become a new person. Preferably a better person. The kind of stand-up guy who could actually sleep at night.

He made it to the family room, dropping the trash bags on the floral love seat. He was just turning toward the bathroom, when he became aware of the wind on his face. He could feel a draft, floating into the tiny sitting area.

The sliding glass door was open.

Aidan realized for the first time that he was not alone.

D.D. was finishing up paperwork when her cell chimed at her waist. She recognized Wayne Reynolds’s mobile number, placing the phone to her ear.

“Sergeant Warren.”

“You have the wrong computer,” Wayne said. He sounded slightly breathless, as if he were running.

“Excuse me?”

“Got an e-mail from Ethan. Kid’s smarter than we thought. He sent Sandy an e-mail infected with a Trojan Horse—”

“What?”

“It’s a kind of virus that allows you access to someone else’s hard drive. You know, a friendly little e-mail that allows the sender to be accepted inside the gates …”

“Holy crap,” D.D. said.

“That’s my nephew. Apparently, he didn’t think I was moving fast enough to protect Sandy from her husband, so he took steps to expose Jason’s online activities himself.”

D.D. heard the rat-a-tat of feet on a stairwell. “Where the hell are you, Wayne?”

“At the lab. Just got off the phone with Ethan, however, and am bolting out to the car. Told him I’d pick him up, we’d meet you there.”

“Where?” she asked in bewilderment.

“Here’s the thing: Ethan still has access to Sandy’s computer, and according to him, in the past forty-eight hours, over a dozen users have utilized the computer to conduct various online searches.”

“Is that part of the forensic evaluation? The computer techs tracing Jason’s online tracks?”

“Absolutely not. You never work on the source. If your guys had Jason’s computer, we should be seeing no activity at all.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have his hard drive. He switched it on you. Replaced either the guts of the computer, or maybe the whole damn thing. Don’t know; have to see it to believe it. In the meantime, he hid the real computer in a flipping brilliant location.”

“Where? Dammit, I’ll have a warrant in the next twenty minutes!”

“Boston Daily.
Ethan can read the e-mail addies of the users, all of whom are
Boston Daily
accounts. Best guess: Jason stuck his computer in the newsroom offices, probably at some random desk. I’ll grant him this much—the son of a bitch is clever.” From the background came the groan of a steel fire door being forced open, then the corresponding slam as Wayne exited the building.

D.D. heard the jangle of keys, the longer thump of Wayne’s stride hitting the parking lot. She closed her eyes, trying to process this news, foresee the legal implications. “Crap,” she said at last. “I can’t think of a single judge who’d let me seize every single computer at a major media outlet.”

“Don’t have to.”

“Don’t have to?”

“Ethan’s currently tracking the computer’s activity on his mother’s iPhone. Minute a user logs on, he can see the e-mail address.
Meaning, all we have to do is be at the office, locate the user with that e-mail address, and wherever that person is sitting, there’s your computer.” There was another muffled sound, then a curt, “Hold on a sec, getting the door.”

From the background came the creak of a car door opening, then slamming shut. D.D. was out of her chair, grabbing her jacket. She’d need to prep a quick warrant, find a succinct way of defining such avant-garde search perimeters, then decide which judge to call this time of night….

“So,” Wayne’s voice returned. “I’ll grab Ethan. You grab the warrant. We’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll grab Ethan,” she corrected him, exiting her office. “Miller will get the warrant.
You
can’t be there.”

“But—”

“You can’t be alone with a witness, or at a scene with the suspect’s computer. Conflict of interest, tampering with evidence, witness coercion. Need I go on?”

“Goddammit,” Wayne exploded. “I did not hurt Sandra! I’m the one who called you, remember? Furthermore, this is my nephew we’re talking about. The kid’s scared out of his mind!”

“Tell me you never slept with Sandra Jones,” D.D. replied evenly.

“Come on, I’m in my car already. At the very least let me be at Ethan’s side. He’s only thirteen, for Christ’s sake. He’s just a kid.”

“Can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.”

“Tough. My sister’s house is still fair game.”

“Don’t you dare!” D.D. started. Except she never got to finish. She heard the roar of the car engine firing to life as Wayne turned the key. Then she heard a curious little click.

He heard it, too.

“Dammit, no!”
the forensic tech screamed.

Then his car exploded in the middle of the crime lab parking lot.

D.D. dropped her phone to the ground. She remained rooted in place, clutching her ringing ear and screaming for Wayne to get out, get out, though of course it was much too late.

Detectives were running. Someone told her to take a seat. Then the first of their pagers started to sound.
Officer down, officer down.

Ethan
, she thought.

They had to get to Ethan. Before Jason Jones did.

Aidan Brewster did not beg.

Maybe once, he would have. He would’ve fought to live, he would’ve argued he still had value, he was a young guy with plenty of potential. Hell, if he could just get beneath the hood of a car, his hands on the engine …

But he was tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of feeling hunted. But mostly tired of missing a girl he never should’ve fallen in love with in the first place.

So he stood in the middle of the family room. Right next to the floral love seat, his hand on Mrs. H.’s favorite crocheted doily.

As the gun appeared in front of him, took aim at his gut.

No more worries, Aidan figured.

He thought of Rachel. She was smiling in his mind. She was holding out her arms to him, and this time, when he took her hands, she didn’t cry.

The gun fired.

Aidan fell to the floor.

Dying took longer than he thought. That made him mad, so at the last moment, he flipped onto his belly, tried to crawl to the phone.

Second shot took him in the back, between the shoulder blades.

Well, fuck me
, Aidan thought. He didn’t move again.

Jason turned off his flashlight. He clutched the heavy metal object as a weapon and eased himself carefully toward the rickety attic stairs. The lit hallway provided a pool of illumination spilling across the bedroom floor. He used it as his target, placing his left foot on the top rung of the ladder, then his right. The top step creaked, the attic ladder trembling unsteadily beneath his weight.

Screw it. He slid down in a rush, landing with a solid thud and rolling low into the darkened master bedroom. Then he was up on his feet, preparing to dash into his daughter’s bedroom and fight for her life.

He discovered his wife standing in front of him instead.

| CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE |

“I don’t understand,” he faltered.

“I know.”

“Are you alive? Is this for real? Where have you been?”

She took the flashlight from him. Belatedly Jason realized that he’d been brandishing it before him, threatening his wife, who, apparently, had just returned from the dead.

She wore all black. Black trousers, black shirt. It wasn’t an outfit he recognized, cheap, ill-fitting. He saw now that there was also a dark baseball cap on the bed. The perfect outfit for stealth. Was she stealing in, or stealing away? Why couldn’t he understand what was going on?

“I saw the news,” she said quietly.

Jason stared at her.

“My father made the five o’clock broadcast, claiming he deserves custody of Ree. I realized then that I had to come back.”

“He claims you’re a liar,” Jason murmured. “Your mother was a fine, upstanding woman, and your father’s only sin was loving his wife more than his daughter.”

“He said
what?”
Sandy asked sharply.

“You’re troubled, have a history of drinking, promiscuity, perhaps multiple abortions.”

She colored, didn’t say a word.

“But your parents were solid. You were just jealous of your mother, then furious about her untimely death. So you ran away from your father, and then … you ran away from me. You left us.” He was surprised, now that he was saying the words out loud, how much they hurt him. “You left me, and you left Ree.”