The Good Neighbor

by Cathryn Grant

  Of course, half wasn’t saying a lot. There were only twelve of us. Barely enough human life to subdue the echo caused by the stone floor and the soaring, exposed-beam ceiling.

  As we walked down the center aisle, I saw Luke and Ashling sitting shoulder to shoulder in the second row on the left side. Ashling’s metallic red hair shimmered in the sunlight coming through the tall, narrow windows. Nicole was beside them, and as we passed by, I saw her hand rest for a moment on Ashling’s, offering a comforting squeeze.

  The rest of our neighbors were in the second and third rows on the opposite side of the aisle. The social worker who was currently responsible for Brittany sat alone in the first pew. Her gaze was fixed on the sleek, elegant casket standing in front of the steps leading to the altar. The polished wood gleamed, giving a sense of beauty and craftsmanship that belied its contents. A single pink rose lay on top.

  We seated ourselves in front of Luke. Duncan moved close to me and took my hand, threading his fingers around mine. We were doing okay.

  The night after I killed Moira, we’d had a long talk. The longest of our married life. I hadn’t been able to think about sleep after carefully telling the whole story to the police. Pieces of the past few weeks, of Brittany’s life, of what she’d learned about Moira and Alan and Grace, skittered around inside my head, ricocheting off my skull, pinging the backs of my eyes.

  Our marathon conversation lasted through two bottles of wine. After I finished telling him about Moira, Brittany, and Grace, our talk rambled from social media to parenthood, and from our sex life to community obligations. We talked about our first date and our honeymoon in New York City. Every few minutes, we circled back to what I’d done to Moira. Without my asking for, or wanting, any kind of reassurance, Duncan told me repeatedly that what I’d done was understandable. I’d had no choice. She was violent and aggressive, clearly willing and determined to destroy everything in her path. I accepted his unnecessary reassurance without speaking.

  We talked about talking, and how we hadn’t really listened to each other. Duncan told me we’d forgotten we were unique individuals. We each had our own way of interacting with the world, and we’d forgotten to respect the differences. Love isn’t about adoring a reflection of yourself, the way Moira tried to love Brittany. What would be the point of seeing the world in exactly the same way as another person, wanting precisely the same things, experiencing an identical response to every stimulus? Where was the fun in believing our thoughts had to match the other’s? It would be as tedious as an entire music collection of the same instrument and voice.

  After that, we went to bed and made love. We lay awake, our naked bodies melting into each other until just before the sun came up.

  When we woke, we’d made our decision.

  Sitting beside me on the polished oak pew was Brittany Cushing. If everything went as we hoped, her name would be Brittany Stanwick before she graduated from the public school eight blocks from our house.

  I’d felt a strange connection to her all the time she was missing. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, longing for her safe return. When we saw each other face-to-face, something clicked.

  We were taking it slowly, supervised by the social worker, testing the water to see whether Brittany felt comfortable with us. While I’d never seen myself as a mother, it felt right. There was something drawing us together. She felt it too. She told me she’d noticed it after I stabbed Moira as we stood there in the silent living room, looking at each other without the need for conversation.

  Feeling her shoulder touching mine on one side, and on the other, the warmth of Duncan’s skin from his hand on mine, our fingers wound around each other until it was impossible to tell which were my own and which belonged to him, I felt a surreal sense of calm. At the same time, a sensation was building inside me, making me feel I was separate from all of the people surrounding me because of what I’d done, that I knew more about life and more about the contents of that coffin than anyone else in that sanctuary.

  The service was short. A woman sang “Amazing Grace.” I wondered what Brittany thought of that musical choice. The preacher talked about motherhood and how Crystal had brought Brittany into the world. He insisted that the truth of that connection would never die. At the end of the service he said a prayer, and the organist played something light and comforting while everyone took one last glance at the wooden box before moving toward the open doors and into the August afternoon.

  Outside, the three of us stood in the inadequate shade of a cluster of birch trees, watching the others emerge from the building.

  Luke and Ashling stood close to each other without touching. When he spoke, she turned her face up toward his, smiling, nodding in agreement and encouragement. He seemed older somehow, as if his recent experiences had jolted him into a different place. He seemed to have forgiven me. Nicole had forgiven me. I suppose death makes everyone look at the world with unclouded eyes. When you experience death, life becomes less complicated because only a few things matter, at least for a while.

  At home, Brittany went into my office. She settled in front of the computer to browse for the furniture and color scheme she wanted in our spare room that would now become her bedroom.

  I took the lasagna I’d made that morning out of the refrigerator and put it into the oven. Duncan opened a bottle of wine while I started mixing a salad and preparing garlic butter for a loaf of sourdough bread.

  “Let’s have a glass of wine on the patio before you do all of that,” he said. He poured red wine into two goblets. “There’s plenty of time.”

  I washed my hands and followed him into the dining area and out through the sliding glass door. I settled onto the chaise lounge and bent my knees to the side, pulling my bare feet up near the hem of my black dress. They looked so pale next to the black, despite it being close to the end of summer.

  Duncan clicked his glass against mine but didn’t offer a toast. We both took a sip of wine. He leaned over and kissed me. When he moved away, his eyes were vaguely damp. “I know I keep repeating myself, but I want to make sure you’re okay. You aren’t saying anything about how you’re feeling. You have to know you’re not a bad person, that it’s okay what you did.”

  I took a long sip of wine, keeping my thoughts inside.

  “If you hadn’t killed her, there would have been two coffins up there today.” His eyes were red and a few tears spilled out, clinging to his lower lashes. He looked at me, but I knew he didn’t really see me, blinded by the film of tears. And love.

  We sat in silence.

  Community is a funny thing. Maybe none of us understands it. I suppose I rid the human community of a vicious killer. I didn’t do it in self-defense though. The police and Duncan thought I had, but I didn’t have to kill her. She was helpless in her grief. I had full control of the knife. I stabbed her because I wanted to…no, I needed to.

  I did it for Brittany. Without Crystal to speak for herself, I didn’t know how easily Moira might continue to manipulate Brittany into keeping her secret. There were so many levels of darkness within that woman’s soul, I feared for Brittany’s life. It wasn’t that Moira would kill her too, but despite Brittany’s attempt to escape, Moira’s hooks went deep. Brittany might never escape if Moira were allowed to go on living.

  Truthfully, I also did it for me. Moira betrayed everything I believed in. She lied to me and used me.

  But now I’m forever on the outside of the human community. I’ve committed the worst crime a person can commit. Killing another human being has divorced me from society. What I’ve done will keep me separated from Duncan, from my neighbors, our friends, from almost everyone I care about.

  Except Brittany. She knows what I did. When I sat beside her and held her after it was over, we finally talked. She saw why I’d done it. She understood that she needed to tell my version of what had happened. So when the police arrived, she did it willingly in her clear, intelligent voice, saving me as surely as I’d saved her.<
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  A Note To Readers

  Thank you so much for choosing to read The Good Neighbor. I hope you enjoyed reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Although I’ve been writing and publishing fiction for years, this is my first novel published by Inkubator Books. Through their dedicated, hands-on approach, they developed a cover I adore, but far more importantly, they worked closely with me to bring my writing to the next level.

  I love hearing from readers. If you’d like to get in touch, you can email me directly through my website or we can connect on social media (details below).

  Reviews are so important to us authors. If you could spend a moment to write an honest review, no matter how short, I would be extremely grateful. They really do help get the word out.

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  Best wishes,

  Cathryn

  www.cathryngrant.com/contact

  Also by Cathryn Grant

  NOVELS

  The Demise of the Soccer Moms ◆ Buried by Debt

  The Suburban Abyss ◆ The Hallelujah Horror Show

  Getting Ahead ◆ Faceless ◆ An Affair With God

  PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLERS

  She’s Listening

  THE ALEXANDRA MALLORY PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SERIES

  The Woman In the Mirror ◆ The Woman In the Water

  The Woman In the Painting ◆ The Woman In the Window

  The Woman In the Bar ◆ The Woman In the Bedroom

  The Woman In the Dark ◆ The Woman In the Cellar

  The Woman In the Photograph ◆ The Woman In the Storm

  THE HAUNTED SHIP TRILOGY

  Alone On the Beach ◆ Slipping Away From the Beach

  Haunting the Beach

  NOVELLAS

  Madison Keith Ghost Story Series ◆ Chances Are

  SHORT FICTION

  Reduction in Force ◆ Maternal Instinct

  Flash Fiction For the Cocktail Hour

  The 12 Days of Xmas

  NONFICTION

  Writing is Murder: Motive, Means, and Opportunity

  Published by Inkubator Books

  www.inkubatorbooks.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Cathryn Grant

  THE GOOD NEIGHBOR is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.