The Good Neighbor

by Cathryn Grant

  About a month after we moved in, when we were coming home from eating dinner at a seafood restaurant, I saw a guy who looked like he wasn’t too much older. He was tall and thin with hair the color of walnuts. He got out of a white car parked at the curb and walked up to the gazebo near their courtyard. He was carrying a Safeway bag, so I guessed it had snacks since it was long past dinnertime. Just before our garage door closed, I looked out the back window and saw a cigarette lighter shoot a flame into the darkness across the street.

  He looked nice. I can’t say how I knew that. It might have been instinct. Most of the time, human beings can tell without talking to someone if they’re a threat or not, friend or foe. It’s an evolutionary thing. Of course, some people are good at hiding who they are, but this guy didn’t know I was looking at him, so he had no reason to hide his true self.

  I knew better than to ask my mom whether she knew his name. She would say he was too old, that I needed to associate with people whose parents were in our homeschool group so we knew what kind of people they were and we didn’t get mixed up with people who could hurt us. It was a terrible view of the human race that she was so focused on people who could hurt us, but she’d always kept me safe and was so good to me, so much fun to do things with, I tended to think she was right about most things, until she was proven wrong.

  Looking things up online made me feel like a detective. I’d read a few novels about kid detectives, and it seemed like a fun thing to do, although those stories were written before the internet existed, so this was different.

  I tried looking up the addresses on our street to see if I could find the names of the people who lived there, but I found nothing.

  For a few nights, I lay awake in my bed, no longer as interested in the computer. I wanted to meet that guy. It took several nights of thinking it over before I got up my nerve to do what I needed to do in order to meet him. I had the idea right away, but not the nerve.

  During all those nights I sat tapping away and exploring the world from our desk, my parents had never once noticed I was getting up in the middle of the night. I was confident they would not notice if I climbed out my bedroom window. Although I wasn’t sure this would allow me to meet that guy, it was the first step.

  The next night, I decided to go for it. I hadn’t had the dream of someone looking in my window for almost a week. Not having the dream to torment me made me feel braver, I think. It made me realize I was growing up and I didn’t have to be scared of something that came out of my imagination when I was asleep. And it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I got in trouble. What would my parents even do to me? My life already felt like I was grounded all the time, which is the usual punishment for teenagers.

  My mom was always careful to secure the lock that allowed my bedroom window to slide open about three inches but no farther. I undid the lock, pushed the screen out of the frame, and climbed out. I thought about reattaching the screen, but just like the computer, if I was caught, covering things up wouldn’t really matter; it would be too late.

  There was a shrub just under my window, so I had to be really careful not to scrape my skin. My mother would notice that in an instant. I found some loose bricks in the shed and stacked them behind the shrub under my window to help me climb back in when I returned. I left the window open wide enough for my body and the screen leaning against the side of the house. I went around the side yard and into the courtyard, slipped out the door, and walked down our front path.

  The street was deserted.

  I walked around the circle then sat on the bench in the little park at the center. It felt good to be outside where no one was watching me. I loved my parents and I appreciated that they took such good care of me, but sometimes I just wanted to do something on my own. In movies, TV shows, and novels, even stories that were written twenty or thirty or sixty years ago, which was my mother’s preference, kids my age went exploring on their own. They experienced the world. They had adventures. They did stuff with other kids without their parents anywhere in sight.

  The second time I climbed out my window was my lucky night. The guy across the street was sitting in the little gazebo with another guy and three girls.

  They were smoking, and even though I’d never smelled it before, I knew it was weed because they were passing the skinny, floppy little cigarette around the group. I stood and watched them for almost half an hour. Then I crossed the cul-de-sac, taking long strides so they would feel my energy and see me coming.

  The girls were Ashling, Riley, and Becca. The guy who lived there was Luke, and the other guy was Jon. They said hi, didn’t ask any questions about why I was outside at night, or comment on my age. Riley held the joint toward me. I shook my head. She handed it to Ashling. I settled against the back of the bench and smiled.

  21

  Taylor

  Although it wasn’t professional of me, I told my clients I had an all-day event and wouldn’t be reachable by email or phone. I spent the day snacking on pistachio nuts and reading the comments on Brittany’s Facebook page. It was a complete waste of time and accomplished absolutely nothing, but it lulled me into feeling I was doing something proactive. It made me feel connected to the others who were worried about her, working so hard not to think about the worst possible outcome, drawing strength from other people writing reassuring comments.

  I was concerned about the lethargy that had overtaken Moira. Alan kept himself busy with work, but she had nothing. Her whole life was built around Brittany. She was not only raising a child, she was functioning as a full-time schoolteacher covering every subject required for a high school student. I imagined that at Brittany’s level, and as she got older, Moira had to do a fair amount of studying to refresh her own memory of algebra, grammar, and history in order to teach those subjects effectively. I admired her for that. I couldn’t comprehend dredging up my recollections of algebra in any way even close to being able to explain the concepts to someone else.

  Telling Moira about the messages from Crystal Green felt like the right thing to do. She needed to know the truth about everything, yet I felt bad for hurting her.

  Every few minutes the Find Brittany page received more likes, more shares, and more comments. I couldn’t stop reading it. Seeing all that affirmation rising in front of my face made me understand why people become addicted to social media. It filled my head so that the hours flew past, as if I had a group of people working with me to find Brittany. Of course, we weren’t actually doing anything. All we did was get the word out. I suppose that’s something.

  Thousands of people were now carrying her photographs in their pockets and purses, easily accessible, going to restaurants and shopping malls, parks and movie theaters. Anyone could see her at any time. The power of its reach was mind-boggling.

  Duncan came home at four. It was his night to cook dinner, so I sat at the kitchen table, checking my phone and sipping a glass of Pinot Noir. His glass was still full as he kept his hands busy chopping vegetables, mixing the sauce, and slicing strips of chicken for a stir-fry. When my glass was nearly empty, I held it out for him to refill. He walked around the island and splashed a bit into my glass.

  “What are you so busy with? Is there an event coming up soon?”

  “No. Nothing until mid-September.”

  “Then what’s got you so engrossed?”

  “The Find Brittany page.”

  “What’s so interesting?”

  “You’d be amazed at all the comments.”

  “A bunch of gawkers with too much time on their hands.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Social media should be used for connecting over common interests, enjoying life, not stalking a missing child.” He dropped garlic into the hot oil and it sizzled. A moment later, the tantalizing aroma of browning garlic filled the room.

  “Smells good,” I said.

  He took a sip of wine. “I think you need to extract yourself from this situation.”

&
nbsp; “Why?”

  “Because it’s not healthy. The police will find her. If she’s to be found.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Since she went missing, it feels like you’ve gone missing.”

  “I’m trying to help. Moira and Alan need our support.”

  “And how have you helped?”

  “I set up the Facebook page.”

  He rolled his eyes, turned his back to me, and began dropping meat into the wok. The sizzle of cooking chicken filled the space, so neither of us felt obligated to say any more. I carried my wine and my phone into the living room and sprawled on the couch, scrolling through the updates, liking and commenting.

  After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen. Duncan went out to the back patio with his lesson plans. When I joined him, we spoke politely to each other. We didn’t discuss Brittany or what I was doing. I could tell he was still annoyed, perpetually annoyed, and I’m sure he noticed the same about me.

  He didn’t grasp the importance of community. You’d think a high school teacher, watching how kids behave, their natural desire to form groups, would understand that the desire for community is innate. And a history teacher at that. Didn’t he realize how society had formed and evolved over the years, and how critical community connection was to the survival of the human race? He didn’t see it that way at all. He thought all the talk about the breakdown of community was alarmist and lacking in historical context. He believed people evolved and governments evolved and society evolved and it was all good. There was nothing to be unduly concerned about. He didn’t think we need to fix anything.

  I thought he was far too dismissive.

  When his plans were completed, he took his novel, a bowl of salted cashews, and a glass of water to bed. I told him I was going to do a bit of work. It was a lie, but I didn’t want to continue or aggravate a fight that, so far, was delicate and easy to turn away from. I also didn’t want to get into bed and cuddle up and pretend everything was fine.

  Maybe I wasn’t doing anything tangible to help with Brittany, but I was doing the best I could.

  It was ten forty, just before I was planning to finally go lie beside my sleeping husband, when a new message flashed in front of me. It wasn’t from Crystal Green.

  The name of the person posting it was weird, which first set off my alarm before I even read the words. All the other people posting on the page used their real names. It was a Facebook requirement. A false name only worked until the system flagged you. The profile picture was a crocodile. The name beside it was Crocodile Tears. The message read Shut down this page, or Brittany’s life will be in danger. And maybe yours.

  I gasped. My hand shook, making it difficult to focus on the screen, the words blurring like waves across the surface of my eyes. At the same time, the words were quite clear in my mind. I picked up my wineglass, the other hand also trembling as I brought the glass to my lips. I took a sip of wine.

  Should I call Officer Carter immediately? Simply delete the message? Because I’d set up the site, I had the ability to delete or hide things that weren’t appropriate or wanted. The private messages like this one, and those from Crystal, came only to me. Should I tell Duncan? He would take it as the final piece of evidence that I needed to uninvolve myself.

  Why would someone threaten me? No one would want the page deleted. It had to be her abductor. Something had scared him. The reports of seeing Brittany, the description of a man, however vague? Had something else buried in the hundreds of comments and thousands of replies and nested conversations frightened him? He’d read my comments replying to Sheryl Robinson Foster and a few others. If he was going to threaten anyone, why wouldn’t it be one of them? They were the ones who had seen him, who had let people know where he was, who had attempted to describe him.

  It scared me, even though I felt perfectly safe in my house. This person couldn’t know where I lived. Or did he? If he’d watched Brittany before taking her, it was possible he’d seen me. It was likely he’d seen all of us at one point or another. My name wasn’t a common one. It wouldn’t be that difficult to find my exact address online.

  I finished the glass of wine. I hit refresh, but nothing new came up.

  Had we come close to him, or did he simply see the risk? The awareness of thousands of people looking for Brittany, her face fresh in their minds through a constant feed of comments appearing at the tops of their screens every hour?

  I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth. My hands didn’t seem capable of those simple tasks. I took off my clothes and slipped under the sheets, cold and shaking despite the warm night air. In the morning, I would call Officer Carter. I sat up again. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and searched for security cameras, reading reviews of the best ones, the various price options. My fingers stopped shaking. I was doing something useful. I was taking the smart course of action. Duncan and I had talked about getting a security camera. There was hardly any crime in our area, until Brittany’s abduction, but there were so many stories in the news. He’d felt it would be worthwhile because of the design of our home, our inability to see who was at our front door before opening it.

  I wouldn’t tell him about the threat, but I’d go ahead and order the camera.

  As soon as he left the following morning, I did both. Officer Carter reminded me of what she’d already said. Social media is helpful, but there will be a certain percentage of unbalanced people. A significant percentage. I needed to use my filter and make sure my online presence didn’t provoke or reveal too much. She said there was nothing they could really do. There was no actual physical threat. It was unlikely the police would be able to locate the sender. If he or she was an experienced online troll, they’d be concealing their location and usage with Tor. She advised me to delete the comment and block Crocodile Tears.

  22

  Alan

  Every morning since Brittany was abducted, I woke believing I hadn’t slept. My eyes were filled with something that felt like the grit that blows off the loose, powdery dirt at the side of the road. My chest and head felt as if I’d been kicked repeatedly all night long. I was sleeping fine in terms of not consciously lying awake, but it wasn’t restful. I was exhausted. My dreams were murky and frightening but not worse than my thoughts during waking hours.

  The exhaustion was fed by terror like nothing I’d ever experienced, as well as the incredible effort required to stay positive. Almost as much as my fears for Brittany, it was the ongoing endeavor to keep Moira from falling apart. Clearly I couldn’t prevent that from happening. No human being can prevent another from falling apart. We can’t prevent anything at all. Yet for our entire marriage, since the earliest days of our relationship, I’d tried. I’d done everything I could to make her happy, to fix whatever was in my power to fix.

  Some would label my love for Moira obsessive. But is love ever obsessive? Because I’m preoccupied with her? Why is that dysfunctional? Love is the most sublime state a human being can achieve. I loved Moira from the moment I first saw her when I was a fifteen-year-old kid. I adored her silently for two years before I had the courage to speak to her. I watched her closely, trying to understand who she was. I was a methodical, analytical kid. I took notes on conversations I overheard among her and her friends. I followed her home from school at a careful distance and watched her house, waiting to see when she came outside, what she wore, whether she climbed on her bike or got into the car with one of her sisters.

  For our first date, I arranged a romantic nighttime picnic on the beach. I bought cold chicken and potato salad from a deli, and I swiped a bottle of white wine from my parents. I was inexperienced with alcohol myself, and I didn’t realize it would affect her small, slight body much differently than a few glasses affected me. Nearly drunk, Moira danced into the warm San Diego ocean, teasing me, laughing, calling out for me to rescue her.

  A moment later, she was knocked over by a large wave. She disappeared under the water, pulled deeper by the strong undert
ow. I blamed myself for waiting too long, for not realizing she was in danger, thinking she was playing with me.

  The effort of swimming through those crashing waves tore at my shoulders while panic tore at my heart. It seemed like hours that I was diving, trying to see her under the dark sky, in the even darker water. In reality, it was less than two or three minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

  When I carried her to the shore, my shoulders were heaving as I cried, hoping she didn’t notice how scared I was. She clung to me, and I knew I would never let her go.

  Yes, I’m obsessively, madly, desperately in love with her. I feel I’ve known her all my life, and if such a thing exists, that we were together in another life, another universe. I’ve loved that beautiful, fragile, complicated, passionate woman forever. I’ve done more than most men would do to keep their wife happy and sane. While that sounds egotistical, it’s the truth. And I don’t resent or regret it. I love her. It’s both extremely complex and extremely simple.

  When the doorbell rang, my stomach knotted, as it always did, as if the button and resulting tone were wired to my intestines.

  Both police officers stood outside the doorway. Officer Mae carried a large paper sack. Without a preamble, Officer Carter said, “We’ve found something we believe belongs to your daughter.” They entered silently, avoiding meeting our eyes. They appeared perfectly comfortable with the silence.

  My mind raced to think what they might have found, something innocuous, something gut-wrenching.

  We settled in the living room, and Officer Mae opened the paper sack. He removed a plastic bag that was sealed and labeled. Inside was a pink wool jacket. He placed it on the coffee table. I knew immediately it was Brittany’s. He had another smaller bag in his hand that I hadn’t seen at first. He placed it beside the jacket. The small bag contained a necklace Brittany had made out of buttons strung together. An oval piece of plastic was the centerpiece, and on that was written the name Brittany.