by S. M. Shade
It’s hard to find the path at night, but I’ve walked it a thousand times during the day, so as soon as I step onto it, I know where I am. My buried treasure is only a few feet away. Soft, muddy ground gives way under my fingers as I dig like an animal until I feel cloth and yank it from the earth.
Unwrapping my prize, I get a quick glance at what four years underground has done to my bank card and driver’s license. No matter. It may not seem like much of a treasure to others, but the two plastic cards in my hand are my lifeline to the outside world I was kept away from.
It isn’t until I shove them in my pocket that the real nightmare begins. His laugh fills the air around me, echoing through the trees, and I jump to my feet, goosebumps lining my skin. I can’t tell where the sound is coming from.
“Lissa. You can’t leave, Lissa. No one leaves.”
Panicked, I run down the path, toward the one lane road that leads to the highway. I’m almost there—close enough to see the full moon glinting off the pavement—when I’m jerked to the ground.
He towers over me, made ten feet tall by my twisted, nocturnal imagination. His voice exudes cruelty and power as he repeats the words that haunt me every day.
“You can’t leave, Lissa. No one leaves. This is your True Life. Everything else is only existence.”
As usual, I sit up in bed, breathing hard, my hand clamped into a fist as if I’m still trying to hold tight to my treasure. Once the terror passes, I flop back on my pillow, frustrated and disappointed in myself.
He’s dead. He’s been dead for weeks.
I’m no longer a captive of True Life, so why can’t I leave them behind?
My sister’s image flashes in my brain, reminding me of the horrible truth. I left her there. She’s still under their control. Maybe my brain insists on making me relive my escape every night because of my selfishness.
To show me I’ll never really be free.
I must fall back to sleep because the next time I open my eyes, sunlight floods my bedroom. Things have a way of looking better in the morning, so I try to shake off the nightmare and get on with my day.
I spend my morning in my studio, putting the final coat on the walls. I decide to have my lunch on the back deck and soak in some sun before getting back to work. There hasn’t been a peep from next door, so I’m surprised to see a man sitting on the dock. Amos explained that I share it with the neighbor.
I can’t tell much about him from this distance, but he’s definitely in shape, lean and muscled. He isn’t fishing or swimming, just sitting on the dock with his feet in the water. I feel like a stalker watching him, but there’s something about him that I can’t put my finger on. He doesn’t swing his legs or splash his feet in the water at all. He’s not looking around or taking in his surroundings. He just sits perfectly still, gazing into the lake.
It’s possible he feels my creepy stare, because when he does look up, his eyes are pointed straight at me. Great. He’s going to think I was spying on him. Forcing a smile that he’s probably too far away to see, I wave at him.
Jumping to his feet, he stalks across the dock as if it’s personally offended him and jogs up his steps. The closer he gets, the more I can’t take my eyes off of him. His body is amazing and that intense look on his face awakens something in me. He spares me only a glance, and his jaw tightens before he disappears into his house.
Damn. He acts like I pissed in his Spaghetti O’s or something. Sighing, I finish off my sandwich. I shouldn’t be surprised I’m attracted to him. Assholes seem to be my type. It’s how I got myself into trouble in the first place. Yeah, I’ll be avoiding this one.
Loneliness suddenly settles over me. I realize I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, but I’m also used to being surrounded by people twenty-four hours a day. It used to drive me crazy, but to go to the opposite situation, plunged into solitude, isn’t easy either. I’ve spent so long learning not to feel, blocking out anything that even resembles an emotion, that I feel overwhelmed by them at least once a day.
Instead of distracting myself today, I let the sadness wash over me. It triggers an urge I haven’t had in too long. A desire to paint, to create, to let it pour out onto canvas. I don’t have the supplies for that, though, so I lean a large piece of wood against the side of the house. It’s about five feet tall and three feet wide. I have no idea what it was intended for, but when I found it in the shed, I figured I could put it to some use.
Grabbing the buckets of green and brown house paint I’ve purchased, I fall into the zone and get to work. Time stops moving, or maybe it speeds up. I can’t tell, because it always seems like I’m outside of everything, disconnected from the universe when this feeling takes hold. There’s no future to worry about or past to mourn. Just me and the present moment, where everything is exactly as it should be.
By the time I’m finished, my back and arm muscles ache, and I’m splashed with paint. I could probably run into the woods and be perfectly camouflaged. Feeling lighter than I have in weeks, I set the painting in the shed and head inside to shower. Tomorrow, I’ll make a trip for art supplies.
Exhausted, I fall into bed. I have workmen coming tomorrow to tear out the carpet and restore the hardwood underneath in the living room and bedrooms. I also need to have a yard sale to rid myself of some of the furniture and odds and ends Amos’s family left behind since he doesn’t want any of it.
#
The last few weeks have kept me busy, but it’s been worth it. The house looks better than ever, though I still have a lot of work to do. After double checking with Amos that he doesn’t want anything from the house, I’ve arranged a yard sale, and hired a young man from down the road to help me. Walsh is seventeen and trying to earn some pocket money, so I promise him a hundred dollars for helping me out, plus twenty-five percent of the money I make today. He’s thrilled with the opportunity, since he can also sell some of his own stuff.
The sun is barely up when we carry the furniture out onto the lawn. There were also boxes of clothing, knickknacks, and household items stored in the attic that are now displayed on folding tables across my yard. I’ve arranged for a charity shop to pick up whatever is left over from the sale tomorrow morning.
Amos drops off Agnes so she can hang out with me today and help keep an eye on things. Agnes walks up carrying a huge box of donuts. “I brought breakfast!”
Taking the donut she offers me, I grin at her. “You and Amos sure spend a lot of time together now.”
She flaps her hand at me. “That old man is crazy.”
“About you, it seems. Are you seeing him?”
Agnes takes a seat on the picnic table. “Nah, we’re just sleeping together. Now, how can I help?”
Walsh chokes on his donut, and I laugh as he tries to hide his reaction with a quick drink of water. Agnes may appear all sweet and innocent, but she’s nothing of the sort.
“Everything is set up. We’re just waiting on customers. I ran an ad in the paper and put up signs.”
It doesn’t take long for people to start showing up. Agnes sits at a table and collects the money while Walsh and I help people load up their purchases. The furniture is in good shape so most of it sells quickly.
The day has gone smoothly and we’re just about to wrap things up when the neighbor’s door flies open. The man I saw on the dock stumbles out, and my breath catches. He’s changed over the past few weeks and not for the better. His hair is overgrown and messy, and he apparently hasn’t shaved in weeks. He’s thinner, and his face has a gray hue.
Making his way down the steps and across the yard, he slurs, “What the hell is all this noise? I’m trying to sleep. I didn’t move here for more bullshit racket.”
I assume the noise he’s referring to was from the two men who have just left. The smell of liquor reaches me before he does.
“If you’re referring to the hammering, they’re done. Two guys just had to disassemble some furniture, so it’d fit in their truck,” I tell him.
My face heats with anger as he pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and throws them at my feet. “There, you need money, you got it. Now, shut this shit down.”
Glaring at him, I straighten my spine. “This isn’t your fucking property. It’s mine. So you can get your drunk ass off of it!” I demand.
His feet tangle, and he almost goes down. His eyes scan me up and down, and a small smile lifts his lips. “Tough talk from a tiny little thing. Cute, though. Maybe you can make it up to me.”
I never thought I could look at a man as handsome as this one and feel revolted, but that’s exactly what I feel. Taking a step back, I warn him, “Stay away from me.”
His face drops into a sneer. “Wouldn’t fuck a sniveling little brat like you anyway.” Spinning around, he sways and stumbles his way back inside his house.
“Well, that was exciting,” Agnes remarks.
Walsh shakes his head. “My dad is home if you want me to get him, Melissa. Or maybe you should call the cops.”
The guy’s curtains jerk closed as I watch. “Nah, he’s just drunk. It’ll be okay. He’ll probably pass out.” The last thing I want to do is call the cops. Everything that happens gets listed in the local paper, and I don’t need my name in there because I filed a police report. I doubt anyone from True Life is actively searching for me, but there’s no reason to announce where I’m living.
The stack of bills starts to blow across the yard, so I scoop them up. Fifteen hundred dollars. He threw fifteen hundred dollars at my feet like it was nothing. “I’ll give it back to him when he’s sober.”
“You’re better than me,” Agnes says. “That drunk bastard would be buying my new living room suite.”
Long after we’ve cleaned up from the sale and I’ve taken Agnes home, I can’t stop thinking about the man next door. I don’t even know his damned name. It’s probably a good thing. He’s obviously an asshole, and possibly an alcoholic. No matter what, he’s bad for me right now. I have enough issues to deal with.
I’ll just do what I planned to all along.
Keep to myself.
Chapter Two
Jeremy
She’s out there again.
My head thumps as I flop into one of my deck chairs. After nearly a month of binge drinking, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like not to have a headache and a sour stomach. Not that it matters. I have nowhere I need to be today.
Or tomorrow.
Or ever.
It probably sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I’m not bemoaning my solitude. The thought of it is comforting.
My only neighbor is a woman who likes to taunt me by lying out on her deck in nothing but a tiny bikini. Okay, I’m sure her sunbathing has nothing to do with me, but it feels like a tease when I haven’t been laid in months.
The early afternoon sun beats down on me while I watch her. Small and slim, she stretches out like a cat before gathering her dark hair into a ponytail. A slight smile tilts her full lips as she lies back and tucks her hands beneath her head.
I don’t know her name. She waved at me not long after I moved in, but I ignored her. She got the same response when she waved at me from her driveway a week after that, and now she ignores me.
Mission accomplished.
The last month has gone by in a blur of whiskey, heartache, and regret. I’m worse than a damn country song. Frannie’s death hit me hard, and while I’ve been grieving for her and the future we should’ve had, I’ve also been accepting some hard truths.
I missed my chance. I didn’t think I was capable of falling for someone, and I did everything I could to deny my feelings for Frannie. Maybe we were too much alike, because she did the same. We took turns pushing the other away. Hell, we practically made a game out of it. Part of me always thought we’d get together eventually, and I assume she thought the same thing. We were young. We had plenty of time.
But time isn’t always granted to the young. My mother used to tell me I always had to learn things the hard way, and in this case, she’s right. Our time was up, stolen from us by a group of fuckwits who had a problem with people shopping. Unfair doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The woman next door gets to her feet and climbs the steps to her back deck. She must feel my eyes raking over her taut body, judging by the middle finger thrust in my direction. A snort of laughter jumps from my throat. I suppose having a hungover guy who looks like he’s been dragged backward through a ditch of swamp water doesn’t exactly make your day.
A knock on my front door is followed by a voice calling out, “Jeremy! Where the hell are you?”
Great. It’s Tucker.
“Dude, I’ve seen peep show booths that weren’t as disgusting as this living room.”
And Justus.
They agreed to leave me alone so what the hell are they doing here?
They step out onto the back deck.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand.
“Oh, you know, just out for a drive, taking in the autumn colors,” Justus replies. “We haven’t heard from you in weeks, fuck nugget. Why the hell do you think we’re here?”
Getting to my feet, I head inside. “As you can see, I’m alive, so you can go now.”
“Nope,” Justus argues, as they follow me into the living room. “You look like shit and your house is gross. It’s intervention time.”
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I scoff.
Tucker crosses his arms and stares down at me. “No, but you’re wallowing in self-pity and that shit is about to end. We’re here to stay the weekend.”
A part of me is glad to see them. As much as I hate to admit it, part of the problem recently is loneliness. I’ve never been the type of person to enjoy being alone. I needed it for a while, but it’s starting to wear me down.
“Fine, but you’ll have to buy your own booze. I’m almost out.”
“We’ll hit the liquor store and party with you tonight, but then you need to dry your ass out,” Tucker warns.
“First, we got to do something about this house, and dude…soap…I’ve heard good things,” Justus says. “Go take a shower. I’ll call a maid service since there’s no way I’m cleaning this dumpster.”
For some reason, pulling myself off the couch to shower doesn’t seem like as much of a monumental task as it has been. Maybe I’m starting to come out the other side of the pitch dark tunnel I’ve been trapped inside.
“All right. Give me an hour.”
Justus scoffs. “You’re going to need more than an hour just to shave. I’m not envious of your bathroom. It’s going to look like you groomed a dog.”
“Fuck off, stripper.”
“That’s more like it,” he replies cheerfully.
Fuck. Maybe I did miss these guys.
Tucker and Justus aren’t just friends, they’re my family. Along with two other guys, Landon and Dare, we run an underground organization called In Safe Hands, or ISH. Tucker helps out when we need some muscle, but the rest of us are hackers, and we put our skills to use by hunting down child molesters, human traffickers, and other predators. Most of the time we send an anonymous report to the police. They’re grateful for the help, so they don’t look for us too hard. It helps that we have ties to another group, Striking Back, who have a lot of cops, judges, and other officials in their pocket.
There have been times when a repeat offender has beat the system and we’ve stepped in to take them out. None of us has any qualms about removing the worst of the worst from society, but we’ve steered away from that since the other guys now have families. And I don’t think I’d look good in orange.
I can hear them talking, then the sound of my back door shutting with a thwack. They must’ve decided to wait on the back deck. Can’t say I blame them.
The man I see in the mirror shocks me. It doesn’t seem like that much time has pa
ssed, but the guys are right. I look like shit. My facial hair has always grown fast, but I’ve never let it grow out until now. Considering my face looks a little gaunt and thin, I decide to keep it and just clean it up a little.
A few minutes with my trimmer does wonders, as does a long, hot shower. A haircut is a definite necessity, but otherwise, I look like a new person. My jeans are a little too loose, and I have to tighten my belt. A few meals probably wouldn’t be a bad idea as well. The one thing I kept up in my drunken stupor was exercising. Working out is so much a part of me it just came naturally, and helped to work off the rage that came and went. That, coupled with not consuming calories outside of a bottle, has given me a too lean look I’m not crazy about.
Hiding and drinking myself into oblivion wasn’t what I came to Illinois to do. It’s true, getting away from everyone was part of the plan, but my ultimate goal was to get up close and personal with the cult responsible for Frannie’s death. The actual shooters may be dead, but their message lives on. I’m going to put an end to it.
Tucker and Justus wait for me on the deck when I emerge from the bathroom, their eyes trained on something. They don’t even notice when I join them.
“Damn, Jer, you have a great view,” Justus says. “Just look at those peaks and valleys.”
My gaze follows his to the woman next door. She’s down on the dock, wearing a tiny pair of shorts and a form fitting tee shirt, totally oblivious to the way she’s being ogled. An easel stands before her, and she is completely focused on her work as she paints.
“She’s my neighbor. We share the dock.”
Tucker gets to his feet. “What’s her name?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’ve never met her. Are we getting out of here or what?” Now that I’m actually dressed, I can’t wait to get a change of scenery. I may be surrounded by beauty, but it’s been wasted on me. My sight has been filtered through a cloud of misery, grief and anger.
