It’s late in the afternoon when Dawn’s landline rings and announces a call from Gunnar Vogel.
My heart jolts as I grab for the kitchen phone. “Gunnar? How are the girls?”
“They’re fine.” There’s an edge to his voice.
“I tried to call earlier, and Annalen’s phone went to voicemail too, so—”
“We had to take Annalen’s phone from her. She’s grounded for a few days.”
“Why?”
There’s a long pause. “I’ll tell you about it later.” Another long pause. “So, you’re out of the hospital?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I mean, the SUV is totaled, but—”
“What the hell were you doing, Claire?” His sharp whisper cuts through the phone line.
I have my story ready this time. It’s not perfect, and it still doesn’t explain my reaction, but it’s better than the truth. “A cat ran out in the road, and I swerved, and then I lost control and ran up on the embankment.”
There’s a pause. “Gretchen says you were acting crazy—saying you thought you saw Annalen driving off with your neighbor.”
I knew I would have to address this. “Yes,” I say softly. “I thought Annalen was in trouble, Gunnar.”
“Why would she have been riding with your boyfriend if you weren’t with her?”
My words lunge off my tongue. “He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not seeing him anymore, and she wasn’t riding with him! I got confused. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Were you drinking?”
“No!”
Another second of silence, and then, “What if you had died in that accident, Claire?”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“The girls would have been devastated. What is wrong with you?”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I clear my throat. “I’m really fine. I have a bump on my head, but that’s all.”
He makes a sound like a growl. “Glad to hear that, but I think the girls are better off staying with me for a while. Until you—get yourself together.”
Yes, my children are better off—safer—away from me and this neighborhood. My composure spirals like a whirligig falling from a tree. “Can I please talk to the girls, Gunnar?”
“They’re with Martina right now, helping her with dinner.”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. “Let me at least talk to one of them.”
He sighs and murmurs something, and then Paris’s voice comes over the line. “Mommy? Are you okay?”
“Yes, honey, I’m fine. I just had a little car accident.”
She smacks her lips. She must be eating something. “I woke up, and you weren’t there, and we were all so scared.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
“Daddy says we need to stay with him for a while. He says you need to get yourself together.”
I feel nauseous as I move to the kitchen window and look out onto the street. The streetlights flicker on. I press my forehead against the glass. “Well, I think you guys should stay there for now. But maybe by this weekend, you know, you can come home?” Snot trails over my lips, and I swipe my finger under my nose. “I love you, honey.”
“I love you too, Mommy. Martina is making us spaghetti tonight.”
I sniff. “That’s wonderful. I know how you love spaghetti.”
“Bye, Mommy.”
Seconds later, Gunnar’s voice returns. “I’ll text you later in the week.”
“Gunnar, I’m fine. And remember, I have the girls for Thanksgiving?”
“We’ll see how it goes. Take care of yourself.”
“Gunnar—”
Click.
I stifle a sob. “Damn it.”
My head pounds. The medication they gave me at the hospital hasn’t touched it.
Not long after I hang up with Gunnar, Abby calls the house’s landline.
“How are you feeling? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised to hear how tired my voice sounds. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for helping me this afternoon.”
“No problem. Hey, if you’re sure you’re okay, I’m going to stay at Jax’s house tonight.”
No, it’s not okay. I don’t want to be alone. “Sure. Of course.”
“Okay, I’ll be back in the morning. Sleep well, Claire.”
I lie in the guest room with the lamp on and cry. I cry until my sides heave and my pillow is wet. I hate that I don’t have my cellphone. The pain in my head feels deeply embedded in my brain, keeping me from sleep. I can’t risk sleep anyway.
I stream shows on the guest room television, letting one episode run into the next...
Bang! The headboard rattles like it’s been kicked, and I jerk forward, craning my neck to stare at the wall behind me. My back pulsates with the sensation of the wood hitting my shoulder blades.
Swinging my legs out from under the sheets, I whirl around to inspect the headboard. Slowly, the realization sinks in. I’ve brought this thing into Dawn’s house. It’s following me.
Rain hammers the roof, washing over the window panes in dark rivers and painting the room gray. It feels like it’s been raining for years. A sharp, tinny noise like a branch vibrating against the panes joins the rhythm of the rain as precipitation hits the glass and rattles it. Tap-tap, tap-tap.
I make my way to the window, pull back the curtain, and peer outside at Gen and Trey’s house next door. It’s a faint outline, just a shade in the night amidst the rain and the darkness, but it looks like a man is crouching on the Painter’s roof. I press the tips of my fingers against the glass, widening my eyes.
It’s the man from the backseat, the window of the old house, the parking garage. This time, I know I see him. He scuttles to the edge of the roof. Thunder booms overhead and a blast of lightning illuminates the span of his shoulders, the hanging claw-like features of his hands, and the sharp planes and shadows of his face, sunken and drawn. Even from here, I can feel him staring directly at me. He looks up and meets my gaze, and a broad leer stretches across his face.
In a mannerism that reminds me of a praying mantis, he cocks his head from side to side before floating down, dipping over the roof’s edge to land on the window ledge.
I can’t move. My lips part as I observe him peering into their window and then attempting to open it, tugging at the base.
With an agonized gasp, I grab the landline phone, preparing to call the Painters, warn them—but without my cellphone, I don’t have their number. I call 911 instead.
“There’s a man, a man attempting to break into my neighbor’s house. He’s at their upstairs window, trying to open it.” After several frustrating minutes of struggling to describe this to the dispatcher, who insists on understanding how a man is on the ledge of a second-story window, the line hisses with static.
The dispatcher’s voice garbles. “Ma’am—are you still there?”
“Yes, yes.”
But the interference continues, and then the dispatcher is gone—her voice replaced by another. Low and painfully familiar, it growls, “You should always lock your door, little girl.”
My mouth falls open. I drop the phone and run into the hallway and down the stairs. As I reach the landing, I pull up short. Rain lashes the sidewalk outside and splashes in through the wide-open front door. Water sprays my face as I slam the door and lock it. I screw my eyes shut and stand with my back against the panel, panting. Is someone in here with me now? Am I safer outside?
“Leave us alone!” I yell at the top of my lungs. Then I feel the familiar internal shrinking as my scream echoes against the ceiling of the empty house.
44
“You actually saw a man on the roof? Like, up there?” Gen asks, craning her neck to glimpse the top of her house. The police tip their heads back to look at the roof too.
“Right there.” I point.
The officers’ expressions are flat. One of them twirls a flashlight from a leather cord.<
br />
“Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”
“I’m sure.” The words come out more harshly than I plan.
We all stand outside on the sidewalk. The rain has stopped, but the streets are flooded, and my house shoes are like icy, wet sponges on my feet.
“And then I called for the police, and then this voice came over the phone while I was talking to the dispatcher—and he told me I should always lock the door—”
“Who told you? Who came on the phone?” One of the officers asks.
“The man. The man on the roof.”
“He called you while he was on the roof?” Gen wrinkles her nose and pulls her coat closed. Underneath it, she’s wearing her nightgown and running shoes.
I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe it was someone else...” My words trail off. They sound ridiculous even to me. “And then I went to the front door, and it was open.”
They all think I’m nuts, that I hallucinated or dreamed it. Gen appears sufficiently rattled, but Trey seems more confused than concerned.
The taller man who introduced himself as Officer Mintz eyes me suspiciously. “Didn’t you file a report a few days ago? About your daughter being abducted?”
“Yes. But that was a mistake.” I swallow. “Look, I know what I saw tonight.”
About a year ago, I counseled a woman who claimed her home was repeatedly burgled by a man who had died in the house. She said he kept taking things from her bedroom. After her third call, the police referred her to psychiatric care. I tried to convince her the man was a manifestation of severe stress. Now I understand her frustration.
The police find no sign of a creepy man in a hat crawling around on the roof or anywhere outside the Painter’s house. They take our statements and tell us to call if we see him again.
One by one, the cruisers trail silently down the street.
Trey, Gen, and I remain standing outside their house, watching the police cars go. Gen’s face is pale as she sits on the low brick wall.
“You should go in, Gen. Go to bed,” I tell her.
Trey reaches for her arm, but she jerks away. “Don’t touch me.” Her voice sounds distant, unlike her own. “No, I’ll—I’ll stay out here.”
“Why? The police said there’s no one in our house.” Trey advances again. “Gen, come on. This is ridiculous. You can’t stay out here all night.”
He forces her to stand, and as she does, water splashes onto the sidewalk between her feet.
“My water just broke.”
Trey looks at me, his mouth opening and closing.
“Trey, get the kids to Linda’s,” Gen says calmly.
“They can stay with me if you want.”
But as I say the words, Gen grabs her stomach and Trey’s arm simultaneously. “No,” she groans. “Linda. Take them to Linda’s.”
I don’t fight it. Of course, they want the kids to go to Linda’s. I mentally brush off the slightest sting of offense. After everything that’s happened, I’m inclined to agree that the kids should not stay with me.
I help Gen into their van and remind her to breathe while Trey rushes back and forth, transferring the kids to Linda’s house, packing Gen’s things into the back.
Gen puffs out a few breaths before grabbing my hand. “I’m scared, Claire.”
I smile. “This will be so easy, Gen. Your third one. Bridget popped out no problem.”
She squeezes my arm harder. “No. I believe you—that you saw a man on the roof.”
My eyes bulge. “You’ve seen him too?”
“No.” She pants rhythmically before continuing. “No, but I’ve seen things—in my house. Cartoon characters. One got on top of me the other night, held me down. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream.”
“A cartoon character?”
She nods, shaking hair into her face. “Yes, yes. A cartoon . . . character.” She moans, grabs her stomach. “I’ve always been terrified of cartoons.”
Seconds later, Trey barrels across the yard and rips the driver-side door open. “Okay, let’s go.” The van rocks as he plops inside.
Gen grips my wrist so hard she leaves nail marks on my skin.
“It’s going to be okay,” I assure her, prying her fingers from my arm. “It’s going to be okay.”
She looks at me with eyes full of terror as I close the door.
Then I rush back into Dawn’s house and lock the door behind me.
45
Sitting in Michael Dunn’s office, I’m struck by how much he looks like a stereotypical private eye from a crime noir movie. The only thing missing is an ashtray and smoke curling around his face.
I shrug the purse off of my shoulder and sink back into the mid-century vinyl-upholstered chair.
Dunn levels his gaze, gestures to my forehead. “What happened?”
I touch the bandage. “Oh, a car accident.”
Dunn winces. “Sorry to hear that.” He pulls out his desk drawer, plucks a writing utensil from inside, and pushes it closed again. He clicks the top of a ballpoint pen with his thumb, then scribbles something down on a bright pink sticky note. “Well, listen, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. But I’ve come across some interesting stuff about your friend, Steel Nolan.”
I nod, clasp my hands together, and brace myself.
He smooths his finger across the top of the sticky note. “I did some research on the name you gave me, ran a background check.” He unsticks the note from the desk and spins it around so I can see it.
Patrick Steel Nolan
I flick my eyes up to meet his, shake my head. “Is Patrick his real name?”
Dunn nods and chews at the inside of his mouth. “It’s the real identity of the only man I could find who had the collective names of Steel and Nolan and lived in this area.”
“Okay.”
“But there’s one problem.” He folds his hands, leans forward. “That man is dead. Died three years ago.”
My head is hurting again, and I touch the bandage. “I don’t get it. How is that possible?”
He sits back in his chair and throws his hands up. “You tell me.”
I lick my lips. “So, who is this guy living next door to me?”
Dunn runs his hand across his mouth, gives a laugh. “The deed to the house next door to you—1120 Amber Mills—is registered to a Bob Philips.”
“Yes, Bob moved out a few months ago.” Bob Philips had been a single man who was hardly ever home. He traveled for his job, and in the winter, he usually stayed in Florida. Gunnar and I had barely spoken to him in all the years he lived next to us.
Dunn leans forward again. “Bob was relatively easy to find. I gave him a call, asked him about the guy living in his house. He was completely baffled. According to him, the house is empty. He’s planning on coming back soon, says he’s going to get it ready to sell in the summer.”
I feel like the floor has just dropped out from under me. “So, who’s living in that house? Who does the white truck belong to?”
“I don’t know. The tags aren’t registered to anyone in Virginia.” Dunn pushes a photograph across the desk to me. “This is Patrick Steel Nolan.”
It’s a different photo from the one I gave him, but it looks like one from Steel’s social media accounts. Steel holding a beam of wood, looking up, smiling for the camera.
“That’s definitely him.”
Dunn lifts the photo. Underneath it is a photocopied death certificate. “Cause of death: struck by lightning while working on a construction site.”
“No, no. This can’t be right.” I press my finger against the photo. “That’s him. That’s the man that lives next door to me.”
Dunn continues to stare at me.
I bring my hands down on the desk. “Could he have faked his death?” It sounds ridiculous, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind.
Dunn raises his eyebrows. “Well, anything’s possible. And if so, he’s pretty brazen to be living under the same name, apparently out i
n the open.”
“I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“And there’s more.”
Dunn opens a drawer, takes out a file, and flips it over on his desk. He riffles through a stack of papers and places one on the desk in front of me. “Nolan’s arrests are mostly juvenile offenses from eighteen years ago. Arson, theft, assault.”
“Arrests? Assault?”
“When he was seventeen.” He points at the fourth line. “Her name was Grace Castille. She later reneged on the charge, said it was consensual.” He raises his eyes to hers. “But she was fourteen. And a month later, she disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” My mouth goes dry.
Dunn nods.
“Did they ever find her?”
“They found her body.”
Something deep in my gut clenches. I’ve been dating a murderer.
“Was he—was he ever convicted of her murder?”
Dunn purses his lips, shakes his head. “No evidence to tie him to the crime.”
My insides tremble. Steel has been in my house, around my children.
Dunn taps his pen on the desk and shuffles through several more papers in the file. He takes out another one, slides it in front of me. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” Someone walks by Dunn’s door, and he raises a hand, gives a wave. “Mr. Nolan, it seems, had some interesting recreational tastes. You ever heard of geocaching?”
“No.”
“It’s a huge network of people who go out and find these hidden stashes using GPS coordinates. There are stashes all over the world, and people get really creative with the way they hide stuff.” Dunn wrenches his mouth, plucks another paper from the file—a printed-out online article. “Back in 2007, Nolan was written up in a Baltimore newspaper about finding a stash geocachers had been chasing for years.”
The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense Page 21
