Broad Daylight

by A. M. Wilson

  Fuck, that tastes good.

  Before long, half the carton of rice is gone, and I toss the last piece of chicken in my mouth. After finishing off my beer, I reach across the island and grab the package. It’s not until then that I notice it has no postmark or a return address, which means it wasn’t delivered by a company and had to be dropped off by hand.

  Unease prickles the back of my neck as I use the end of my chopstick to break the tape. I rear back when I pull back the flaps, and the plastic inside is moved aside. A wretched stench fills the air.

  “What the fucking hell?” I mutter.

  Getting up from my stool, I go to the garage and grab a pair of latex mechanic’s gloves. I pull them on as I go back to the kitchen. The whole fucking room smells like rotten eggs and dog shit. I’m tempted to hunt down a clothespin to clip my nose closed, but I don’t want to breathe it in my mouth either.

  I eye the box as I approach, half expecting something to jump out because, with my luck lately, something would.

  I bend the flaps all the way back. The plastic is black like a trash bag. Using my chopstick, I move the bag so I can see inside it. Old food and trash. Leaning over, I take a closer look. Is that the fucking sushi I had the other night? I move the half-eaten sushi to the side and see a tomato slice. When I spot another smaller box inside, I drop the chopstick and reach in to grab it. Flipping it over, I see my name and address written in pen, and Maggie’s name and address at the top left corner.

  Whoever in the fuck sent this went through my mail and dropped it in the box, along with the trash from my trash can. It wasn’t the wind that knocked over my trash cans this morning. It was some sick asshole fucking with me instead.

  My jaw hurts from grinding my molars. When I get my hands on those little bastards, I plan to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.

  A small voice in the back of my head whispers, would kids really go to this length to prank a neighbor?

  My own childhood comes to mind, and the time a couple of friends and I egged a house down the street. Kids were assholes back then, and their attitude has only gotten worse over the years. So, yes, they would do something this stupid.

  I debate whether to call the cops but decide against it. Like I told Jonas earlier, what can they really do if there’s no proof of who did it? It would be a waste of time for the officer and me.

  Anger spikes my blood when I see the small package from my niece. They’re not only fucking with me, but they brought my innocent niece into it.

  Yeah, those little shits will get exactly what’s coming to them.

  Reaching out, I start stuffing the plastic back in the box to close it when something else catches my eye.

  “What the f—”

  I cut myself off, and my blood turns to ice in my veins. Reaching inside the box, I pull out a picture. It’s a five-by-seven of me walking out of Rook’s. The face is etched over with a lightning bolt, hiding the identity, but I’m dressed in the same shirt and jeans I wore the last time I was there. The same night I saw Dani for the first time in twenty years.

  I’m standing just outside the doorway with my hands shoved in my pockets and my head tipped down. I had just left the bar, and my emotions were all over the place after seeing Dani. I had to take a moment to keep myself from marching back inside and kissing her until both our lips were numb.

  I flip the picture over and find neat handwriting.

  To Reece. From your number one fan. I hope you enjoy my gift.

  I drop the picture back in the box on top of the trash. Yanking my gloves off, I toss them in the trash on my way to the sink. After scrubbing my hands with soap, I dry them and grab my phone. I lean back against the counter, facing the box as I pull up Niko’s number.

  There’s no goddamn way this is from some punk-assed neighborhood kid. They’re too fucking dumb to come up with something this elaborate. Not to mention the note on the back of the picture.

  What in the hell did they mean from your number one fan?

  I glare at the box as I bring the phone to my ear. It rings five times before it goes to voicemail.

  “Call me when you get this,” I grunt into the phone before disconnecting the call.

  I stand with my hands propped on the counter behind me as I contemplate what to do next. Niko’s the detective in the family, so he’ll know what to do. I play with the idea of calling the local sheriff’s office but decide to wait until Niko calls me back. I want to get his opinion on the matter first.

  My eyes slide to Maggie’s gift, and my anger renews. What was supposed to be something sweet from my niece has turned sour. I can’t even open the box because the police might want to take it for evidence. Envisioning the disappointment on Maggie’s face when I have to tell her I couldn’t open her gift has my hands balling into fists.

  I stalk across the kitchen to the island. Using a paper towel, I grab Maggie’s box and put it inside the bigger box, then use a hand towel and take it out to the garage. I’m not keeping it in my house to stink up the whole place.

  Going back through the garage door, I walk through the kitchen, snagging my phone on the counter on the way and another beer from the fridge. I take a seat in the living room as I wait for Niko to call me back. I check the time on my phone. It’s only seven in the evening, too early for Niko to be in bed yet.

  Using the TV to distract myself, I pull up an old Western movie and prop my feet up on the coffee table to wait.

  I startle from a doze in the dark. One of my feet falls off the coffee table as I awake to nothing but TV static. My ears strain to hear sounds out of the ordinary—a whisper of fabric or a scuff of a shoe—but nothing greets me except the sound of my water softener running and the whirr of the air conditioner unit.

  The time on my phone signals eleven at night, and I have zero missed calls or texts. It’s unlike Niko not to reply within an hour or two, especially considering my terse message. I shake my head and haul myself upright. I’ve been relying on myself for decades. His advice is welcome, but I’m capable on my own.

  With that thought, I’ll give him twenty-four hours. If he doesn’t get back to me before then, I’ll call the sheriff's office. The least I can do is make a report. Kids or not, they’re fucking with the wrong guy.

  I jab the button to turn off the TV, dump the dregs of my beer down the sink, and head to bed. With only a moment's hesitation, I detour to the gun safe.

  Someone’s been creeping around my house at night, and I’m not going to give them the upper hand by being unprepared.

  5

  Reece

  Morning comes early with a blaring alarm. Not even a hint of the sun is out when I pull myself from beneath the warm blankets. I snag my gun from the night table without hesitation before wandering into the kitchen for coffee. Sluggish doesn’t even begin to describe my state. I’d never admit out loud how I tossed and turned throughout the night and dreams of an intruder plagued me. As a thirty-eight-year-old man, one incident thrusts me suddenly back into the mind of my teenage self, living in the gang-ridden community of my childhood.

  I rest the gun on the countertop, palm gripping the butt with my finger parallel to the trigger as I wait for the coffee to brew. Niko has until the end of my workday to call. Until then, I shove the events of last night from my mind. Dwelling on shit I can’t control will only serve to piss me off further. As if I haven’t already had enough of that this week.

  I won’t lie and say I don’t breathe a sigh of relief when I head out to my truck thirty minutes later to find all is peaceful and as it should be. I returned my gun to the safe before I left, but for a split second, I contemplated taking it with me.

  The day passes by in a blur, sprinkled with friendly ribbing and jobsite jokes from my crew. They’ve known me long enough to pick up on my distracted state.

  At lunch, Jonas calls me over to the skid steer we use to clean up heavy debris. I drop my cooler at my feet, pluck out a sandwich, and sit on the lid.

 
; “What’s up?” I ask a little tersely, not in the mood for anyone prying into my private life. That’s not out of the ordinary, though. These guys know I keep shit locked up tight.

  Jonas props his hands on his hips and straightens his spine. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing. What’s fucking with your head this week?”

  A more balanced person would let their friends know what the fuck was going on. My life would be easier in a lot of ways if I was that guy. Keeping people at arm’s length is the only safe way to survive.

  “I told you about my truck.”

  “You are not letting some punk-ass kids get to you this bad.”

  I shrug. “What if I am?”

  He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it. I don’t fucking care if he does or not.

  “You going to stand there with that dumbass look on your face as if you don’t have a boat in your garage that you practically make love to every night?”

  Jonas throws his head back with a bark of laughter. “Fair point.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich in hopes this conversation is finished.

  “I’m not convinced that’s the whole story.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “As long as you keep your head on the task and don’t get injured because you’re not focused, I guess it doesn’t. That being said, we’re your crew, but we’re also like family.”

  I give him a deadpan look. “Touching.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You first.”

  Our barbs glance off one another as if made of rubber. Jonas is the first to crack a smirk, but mine’s not far behind. This is our main form of entertainment throughout the day.

  I finish my sandwich and get off my cooler in order to grab a quick drink. Break’s over.

  “You up for a beer tonight?”

  I shake my head and cap my water bottle. “Not tonight. I have a phone call I’m waiting on.”

  He slaps me on the back of my shoulder as he passes. “Next time.”

  I lift my chin in agreement. Definitely next time. After I get to the bottom of who’s fucking around with me, I have a feeling I’m going to need a damn drink.

  The second I pull into my driveway, Juliet bounds down the sidewalk as if she’d timed my arrival. Today her tight, robin-blue sports bra pushes her tits unnaturally high beneath her chin. The matching leggings cling to her like a second skin. My door is opened before she makes it up the drive, and her perky smile does nothing to intrigue me further. If anything, it annoys me more.

  Even though my thoughts make me sound like a dick, I’m never rude to a person if they don’t deserve it. Though some might argue her continued unwanted passes make her a prime candidate.

  “Juliet. How can I help you this evening?”

  “Hi, Reece. I saw you had quite a mess here the other morning. Any idea what happened?”

  Not your goddamn business. I say those words in my head so I don’t say them out loud.

  “I’m guessing some neighborhood kids.”

  Her eyes dart around my property in a way that sends unease through me. “Do you think the rest of us should worry? I have some girlfriends who live near me who also saw the disaster on your lawn.”

  I give her a tight smile. “No. I think you’re perfectly safe.”

  She reaches out her palm to rest on my bicep. My muscles tighten with discomfort. As gently as I can, I circle her wrist and pull her hand off me.

  “If you don’t mind, I need to get inside.”

  “Right! Of course. It’s good to see you again.”

  I don’t bother with a verbal response. I make sure to hit the locks on my truck as I walk away. Once the alarm is armed, I check the window and let out a sigh when Juliet’s gone. The woman is relentless in her pursuit in a way that leaves a bad taste. The next time I see her, I’ll make it clear she doesn’t have a chance.

  As I shed my clothing on my way to clean up, I detour to the gun safe. Until I hear from Niko or call the sheriff's office, this is my new normal. There’s no need to even keep it locked at this point. I leave the gun to rest on my bathroom counter while I wash off the day’s sweat and grime. When I step out, it almost mocks me. I’ve never been the type of person to carry around a weapon consistently, and doing so now feels not only foreign but also fraudulent.

  I’m familiar with the weapon. I bought the 9mm a few years ago to replace the one my dad gifted me when I moved out on my own for the first time. We’ve spent many days at the range under the guise of bonding. I know he was making sure I could handle myself being out on my own, even if it annoyed me at the time. After his heart attack a few years ago, I now cherish those times with him.

  Niko didn’t have the same experience. He went to school to be a cop, so my dad left him to his training.

  I take it with me to the bedroom, deposit the weapon on my dresser, and pull on a pair of sweats just as the cordless landline starts ringing beside my bed. Who the hell is calling my house phone? The only reason it’s still hooked up is because it came free with my cable package. Besides the occasional telemarketer, nobody calls me on that number.

  “Hello?”

  “Reece.” Niko’s voice holds a touch of relief. “I just got access to my voicemail and heard your message.”

  “What do you mean, you just got access?”

  He chuckles warmly. “Would you believe me if I said my phone took a swim in the ocean?”

  “Yes,” I answer immediately. “That sounds exactly like something that would happen to you.”

  “I can’t even be too pissed. We had a beautiful time out on the boat. Even Mom and Dad joined us for the day.”

  Fishing in Florida does sound pretty damn relaxing right about now.

  “All that to say, I had to call into my voicemail to check the messages. And because I never update my phone, the last contact I have for you is your old cell number and this landline.”

  “That answers my second question. Write this down.” I recite my cell number. With the phone pressed to my ear, I retrieve the gun and head to the kitchen for a beer. As I pop the top off, Niko circles us back.

  “So, your voicemail? Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Eh,” I mumble, stalling to think of the right words. “First, I thought it was some kids messing with me. I mean, we both know this town has cleaned itself up over the past couple of decades, but it’s still not perfect. Garbage can was tipped over, trash everywhere. And some little fuck carved a design on my truck.”

  “What makes you think it’s not kids?”

  “I got a package.”

  “Tell me more,” he barks, and even though he’s my little brother, I can recognize his need to protect coming through.

  “I—”

  A heavy breath sounds across the line. Shit, I’m glad I didn’t say what I was about to, or I might scare my little niece or nephew to death. I don’t want Maggie to find out about her present like that.

  “Is that Maggie or Christopher I hear waiting to talk to their uncle?” I inflect my words with a happiness I don’t feel inside.

  The line is silent for a beat. “It’s just me, Reece. The kids are at Mom and Dad’s for a sleepover.”

  “Did you hear—” I don’t even need to finish before Niko answers.

  “Yes.”

  I’m on the move before the syllable is even out of his mouth. “Son of a bitch.”

  I jog back into the bedroom to retrieve the gun. Niko shouts in my ear, but I can’t hear him above the rage swirling in my head. There’s only one other landline phone in this house, and that’s in the basement.

  The entrance is near the mudroom. I double-check the house is alarmed, and the door remains locked. Whoever is in here must have entered before I got home. Or somehow fucked with my alarm.

  “Niko, I’m going to set you down.”

  “No! Stay on the line.”

  “I need to focus.”

  Without hanging up, I set the cordless on the counter beside t
he utility sink and carefully open the door.

  My thoughts race as I descend the dark stairs one at a time, careful not to make too much noise. If these are kids—which seems less likely by the day—they’re bold as fuck and picked the wrong target. Yet my gut tells me something more sinister lurks here.

  Dim light filters in through a window to my left. The basement is open and unfinished, so from the base of the stairs, there are only two directions. A quick glance toward the left reveals my gym equipment, untouched and unoccupied. I shift my focus to the right.

  “Goddammit,” I mutter beneath my breath.

  Shattered glass litters the floor beneath the egress window facing my backyard. The spot would be perfect for someone trying to sneak in, except I keep my house armed at all times. Confusion increases at the landline phone nestled neatly in its cradle. The urge is strong to pick it up, but I know not to touch anything. A pit opens in my stomach at the thought of my space being violated and so easily. Not to mention how quickly this person is escalating.

  After one last scan around the space to verify it’s empty, I jog my way back up the stairs to the phone.

  Before I pick it up, my cell phone rings in my pocket.

  “I’m okay,” I tell my brother as I answer his call.

  “Dammit, don’t you ever do that to me again.”

  “I’m okay,” I repeat.

  “My old partner, Dave Tavers, is on his way. Did you catch anybody?”

  I shake my head and glance at my bare feet. “No. Basement window is broken. The phone was hung up, but I heard someone breathing.”

  “I did too. And I heard the phone click as if someone hung it up.”

  “Tavers can dust for prints.”

  “Yeah.” My brother answers in a grim voice. “Stay on the line until Tavers shows up.”

  “I will.” I swallow twice to get the words through the stickiness.

  6