by Girard, Dara
The Neighbor
Dara Girard
Contents
The Neighbor
The Neighbor
Also Available
About the Author
Copyright Information
The Neighbor
Dara Girard
Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC
www.iloripressbooks.com
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2016 Dara Girard
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author.
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About the story
After a long day, Anita Cross just wants to enjoy a hot latte in her favorite coffee shop.
But when she sees her new neighbor, a mysterious man whose name she can’t remember, she senses that means trouble.
In minutes, she discovers just how much when he approaches her table and demands she leaves with him for her safety.
But is her neighbor a friend or foe?
The Neighbor
He was there again.
Large, intimidatingly male, forceful, unforgettable and annoying. Every time she saw him something bad happened. She was beginning to hate the sight of him.
Anita Cross took a sip of her hot, hazelnut latte, trying to pretend she wasn’t tense as she sat among the hiss of the espresso machine, the gentle murmur of voices and the warm scent of coffee beans and blueberry scones. She’d pretend he wasn’t there. She’d come here to relax on this late summer day and she would.
She couldn’t blame him for showing up everywhere she was. They lived in the same building—on the same floor, he was only two doors away—frequented the same grocery store within walking distance of their downtown apartment in a newly developed area of Stanton Cove, Maryland. They liked the same coffee shop—what’s not to like? It was also within walking distance with an excellent selection—even the outdoor courtyard where she liked to sit when the weather was agreeable (on a cool spring afternoon or warm autumn evening)—wasn’t out of reach. She couldn’t bar him from being in a public place.
But she was starting to wish she could.
Anita took another sip of her latte, casting a glance over at him. Yes, she wished she didn’t have to see him. She heartily wished she could prevent him from being anywhere near her because the sight of him meant trouble. Not the metaphorical kind, although he did look like a bad boy with skin the color of black coffee, strong rigid features and a muscular build, but real on-your-guard trouble.
She’d first associated him with trouble when she’d seen his black sedan next to hers at a stop light just before the tire on her car burst, causing her to pull over to the side and call for emergency assistance. She didn’t know what she hit, but whatever it was demolished the tire and even damaged the rim. He pulled over too. She told him she was okay, but he didn’t leave her until assistance arrived.
The second time she’d nearly gotten run over while walking to the grocery store. She’d seen him coming in the opposite direction carrying a tan colored reusable bag that he swung back and forth, the gesture was more measured than carefree. She’d offered him a brief smile of acknowledgement as she passed him. Moments later, some lunatic who clearly hadn’t been paying attention, had driven up on the pavement. He’d gotten her out of the way, she couldn’t remember how he’d been able to move so fast, and the car hadn’t stopped. It seemed to have accelerated as it left the scene.
She’d ended up with a bruised thigh and scraped arm, but none of that bothered her as she sat on the sidewalk, trying to process what had just happened. She felt hot and cold at the same time, remembering the strength of his grip, the power of his protection as they both toppled to the ground.
She’d thanked him, more angry than scared. He seemed angry too. But she wasn’t quite sure how to read his expression; his dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even say “You’re welcome” or “Are you okay?” He just looked her over, assessed her with the same distant interest of a digital scanner, then looked around them, his gaze sweeping the ground and then the sky.
“What are you looking for?” she asked him.
He pointed to one of the cameras at the intersection a few blocks away. She knew there wouldn’t be one on the stretch of pavement where they were. The driver had gotten lucky.
She started to stand then noticed a slow river of purple liquid heading towards her, she quickly saw its source—the bottom of his reusable bag was soaked. She stood and grabbed the bag, angered that her neighbor had also been a victim of the driver’s carelessness. “Oh no your groceries are ruined!” She peered inside and saw a shattered glass bottle of grape juice. “We can save the rest of the items,” she said, taking out the three frozen dinners. The cardboard exteriors were damp, but she knew the inside would be fine; the cucumber and carrots could be washed and the packet of spearmint gum had been protected by the other items. She transferred his items to the bag she’d planned to use for her groceries. “Here,” she said, holding the bag out to him. “Don’t say ‘no.’ I owe you one.”
For a moment he stared at her as if he was going to say something, but then nodded, took the bag and walked away.
When he saw her the following day in the elevator, he didn’t ask her any questions. Others would likely have asked “Are you alright?” “Wasn’t that crazy?” “Can you believe some people?” But he didn’t, he just nodded when he saw her, rubbed the back of his neck, cleared his throat, then said, “Umm…your bag—”
“It’s yours now. No need to think of returning it, I have plenty of others.” She smiled.
He didn’t. He just nodded before he shifted his gaze to the elevator doors. She sensed he didn’t like her, but couldn’t imagine why. Maybe he thought she was overly friendly or pushy, but she couldn’t help herself and didn’t feel she needed to defend herself either.
It was the following week that made Anita know he was a bad omen. She’d been in the courtyard and noticed him just as something whizzed past her cheek. She didn’t know what it was, but it took down a pigeon. She pictured a careless child with a toy gun.
Her neighbor’s intense gaze swept the area as it had after the pavement incident, but she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.
“It’s nothing, probably some kid with a toy gun or a slingshot,” she said.
He didn’t look like he believed her, but he didn’t argue.
That had been three days ago. Anita couldn’t even remember what his voice sounded like. When he spoke, his sentences were always brief and crisp, not enough to make an impression. They had exchanged a few pleasantries, but nothing remarkable enough to be remembered. Not that it mattered.
All that mattered was that the sight of him meant trouble and she wasn’t in the mood for it today.
This Friday afternoon, she’d shuffled through her mail, while standing at a dining table she needed to replace, absently wondering if she had anything she could reheat because she wasn’t in the mood to cook. She’d ignored a message from her half-sister inviting her over for dinner, something she’d never done before, but Anita hadn’t inherited their mother’s estate before so Anita surmised that may have influenced her sister’s new behavior.
Anita paused when she spotted a letter from her dad. He had annoyingly beautiful handwriting, which just seemed strange nowadays. Who took such care anymore? But he did, making sure his writing was not only legible but also clear and straight as if he’d used a ruler.
His handwriting suited him perfectly—a man with a slender build, alert features and melancholy eyes. “That was my downfall,” her mother used to say with a bitterness that
never left her. “You have those same eyes. Sometimes it hurts me to look at you,” which may have explained why her mother had started a second family and pretended that Anita didn’t exist.
Anita stared at the letter a long moment, then tossed it back down. She’d open and read it later. Her father never said anything interesting. They’d been estranged for years. “Why can’t I live you with you?” she’d asked him when she was six, after her half-brother was born. “You’re better off with your mother,” he’d said and given her no other reason. He’d come in and out of her life like a fog until she’d gotten tired of the uncertainty and the broken promises. During her sophomore year in college, she cut off communication.
Six months ago she’d given him permission to come back into her life, when he’d shown up at her mother’s funeral. But instead of phone calls, emails or texts, he’d chosen letters and cards. “Something you can hold on to,” he’d told her.
She kept them, but didn’t know why and had stopped reading them, because she didn’t know how to reply. She felt guilty that she still didn’t know how to accept him into her life. He bared his soul to her in his letters, talking about his drinking and depression, but she kept her heart guarded. She didn’t want to trust that what he was sharing was real. She didn’t want to be hurt in case he disappeared again.
Anita absently shuffled through the rest of her mail then decided to go to the coffee shop. She knew it wasn’t because she didn’t want to cook or that she was really in the mood for a latte. She wanted to escape her father’s letter and the words she wasn’t ready to read.
The seemingly harmless envelope seemed to whisper to her to open it. To read what was inside. To let it—them—because there were others—become part of her life. But she wasn’t ready. Later. She’d get to it—them—later. Right now she needed to be somewhere else.
The coffee shop was supposed to be her refuge.
But he’d shown up.
Or perhaps he’d been there and she hadn’t noticed him at first. It was only when she’d taken a seat near a window and looked around that she’d spotted him sitting in a dark corner. The coffee shop was brightly lit, so she wasn’t sure how he created the effect, but he seemed to be in shadow. He sat at a round table with a small brown paper cup with a white lid and a pair of keys placed next to it. He always sat alone with his back to the wall. He looked around as if on high alert. Always watching, not on edge, but with a cool, detached observatory air.
Maybe if she ignored him nothing bad would happen. What could happen in a coffee shop?
Every time he saw her, his mouth refused to move. Karim Harlow glanced at his neighbor then looked away feeling as awkward as a kid at a peep show. It wasn’t because she was beautiful, she wasn’t. But she was striking with her cocoa brown skin, dark twists, which she gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck, full lips and soft cheeks. She was easy on the eyes, but that wasn’t what left him tongue-tied. It was just one moment that changed it all for him. She probably didn’t even remember the incident, but it was etched in his mind.
It had happened three months ago when he had only been living a week in his new place and had finally cleared enough boxes to invite his sister to visit. He wanted enough space for her wheelchair to move around. He was teasing her about something, he couldn’t remember what, but if he’d been paying attention he would have noticed Anita getting into the elevator with them. All he remembered was hearing a surprised gasp and then, “My alma mater? What are you studying?”
He turned and saw Anita pointing to his sister with a vibrant friendliness, he rarely saw. Few people were that kind to her. Although her mind was bright, her body was contorted by cerebral palsy. Most people looked away, but Anita was staring at the UMBC sweatshirt his sister proudly wore and instead of assuming it was just a souvenir thought his sister was a student at the university.
His sister replied, true delight evident in her tone and he learned that Anita was a science tutor and even offered her services. The elevator ride ended too soon and before he knew it she was waving and walking down the hall to her apartment.
For the rest of the visit it was his sister’s turn to tease him. “I know you like her,” she said while they shared a pizza in his living room. The only place that was suitable for visitors.
“I don’t even know her.”
“That’s what dates are for.”
“She’s probably seeing someone.”
“You won’t know if you don’t ask.”
That was the problem. He couldn’t manage to open his mouth to say anything. When he bumped into her at the grocery store he could only manage a grunt; in the courtyard a semi-civil nod. He couldn’t understand his fear. The Marines had taught him how to think, act and take charge. He’d faced battle. He now owned a successful security firm. Give him a problem, a mission or a job and he was fine, but without it he was lost. Why was talking to her so difficult?
And then there were the accidents. The near miss made speech even worse. Her car tire didn’t look like it had hit something. It looked as if it had exploded, but she’d never mentioned anything, and he was sure she wasn’t the type to keep thoughts to herself. If her mechanic had told her something bad, she would have let him know.
He’d expected her to say something about the tire. Instead she’d been her regular cheery self.
Then there was that damn car. He’d been so angry when the tan colored Acura nearly ran her down, words didn’t come. He wanted to say more—he wanted to say something, anything—but they stayed trapped in his throat. Just as they had in the courtyard. He’d searched for the pigeon that had been hit to see what had struck it, but it had disappeared. It must have only been stunned and flown away or moved, which wasn’t good. He couldn’t imagine anyone hurting her. He wanted to keep her safe.
That’s why he watched her. There was something not right about the three incidents. He’d noticed the license plate of the car—Florida tags, looked like a rental, but he didn’t get the full plate number.
He also sensed he wasn’t the only one watching Anita. Today, Kamir noticed a man—nondescript with a habit of chewing on his bottom lip—in a booth, also watching her. He’d seen him before, passing by the courtyard and in the coffee shop. He usually came with another man equally nondescript, except white. He’d seen them twice before, behaving like business colleagues instead of friends. But this time the man was alone and that bothered him. He didn’t know why, but his gut said he had to do something and he always trusted his instincts.
He took one last swig of his now cold coffee. He had to do what at first had seemed impossible. He was going to have to talk to her.
Anita watched him take a drink of his coffee then frown. She didn’t know his name—or had forgotten it, which was possible—or even what he did for a living. They’d been neighbors for a couple of months and all she knew was that he had a sister with a great laugh who was studying microbiology. Again, it didn’t matter. She didn’t need trouble today. She had enough on her mind. She was going to enjoy her drink and forget all about him. She closed her eyes and lifted the warm cup in her hands, bringing it close so she could inhale its aroma.
The sound of a chair scrapping across the ground jolted her out of her peaceful moment. Her eyes flew open. She looked up and saw him. He loomed over her like a dark shadow, although today he wore a light brown jacket and jeans. She stopped with her cup halfway to her lips.
“This is what you’re going to do,” he said in a low voice. “You’re going to put your cup down and follow me outside.”
Was he insane?
His tone sounded serious; his look even more so. And his voice. This was the most he’d spoken to her. She almost wished she hadn’t heard it. Deep and deadly. She looked down at her cup, she could throw it in his face. It would be hot enough to give her time to run.
“I’m here to help you,” he continued. “Now slowly stand and I’ll explain. There are plenty of people on the street. You won’t be alone with me
and it’s safer there.”
Safer? It didn’t seem that anywhere was safe with him. What could be wrong with where she was?
“Anita, please, we don’t have time.”
How did he know her name? Had she told him? Maybe she’d mentioned it to his sister. He’d remembered it? Why couldn’t she remember his?
“Do I have to leave my drink?” she asked. It was an inane question considering the bizarre situation, but she wanted to have a semblance of control and the warm cup gave her courage.
He thought for a moment then said, “No.”
He held out his hand.
She took a deep breath. Trouble. She knew it.
His pace picked up once they were outside.
She heard the shout of a man saying goodbye to a friend dropping him off at the curb, the easy flow of traffic, and her latte felt cool compared to the summer sun.
He headed back to their apartment building.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” she asked him, his pace and her unease making breathing difficult.
“I’m not sure yet.”
He walked inside the main entrance. She headed for the elevators. He shook his head. “We’re taking the stairs.”
Seven floors. She wished she’d left her coffee at the shop. Her neighbor—damn, what was his name?—looked like he ran twenty miles a day and would be up to the task; the extent of her daily exertion was jumping in and out of a shower. Winded, she finally reached her floor. “This is ridiculous,” she said her temper peaked. “Is there someone following me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then why...”
She paused when he put a finger to his lips. He looked down the dark blue carpeted hallway, then motioned her to stay put. She nodded. He walked towards her apartment door. A few moments later he returned to her, looking grim. “Did you lock your apartment?”
