by Lindsey Hart
My parents know the general area where I am staying, but that’s about it. The shitty thing about getting left a lot of money and having the whole world know is that the people who you thought were your friends are suddenly just as bloodthirsty as all those journalists. Everyone wanted something, but no one was overly nice about it. People suddenly disliked me just because I had this huge sum of money. Not just people I knew. Strangers. Let’s just say I got rid of all my social media accounts real fast.
So, I’m thirty-two. I currently have no job because I quit, and I live in suburban hell. I only go out at night, and if I have to slip out during the day, I make sure I do it in disguise. I now am the proud owner of a selection of wigs, and my wardrobe is pretty monochrome. Sunglasses are also my new best friend. My car has tinted windows—well, as much tint as is legal. Of course, it’s a new car. A non-descript domestic black sedan—not an import because I didn’t want to turn heads.
I’m just starting the second month of hiding out like a wanted criminal.
It sucks. I’m lonely. I’m bored.
And the media still hasn’t forgotten my name yet.
I guess I still have one good friend left. I’ve known Rob since college, and I know he’s not going to abandon me just because I inherited a couple billion from some long, not-so-lost grandfather. If he wasn’t closer than a brother, I’d say he was sticking around in hopes that I’d give him a few million. I’ll probably give the guy his pick of a sports car or a brand new house. He deserves it. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even be alive to inherit the money if it weren’t for Rob. Suffice it to say, I didn’t always make the best choices back in college. He was and is a good wingman, and he always had my back. He still does. Just because I’ve told him not to come here doesn’t mean I’m not going to escape this hellhole and meet him somewhere like we’re criminals doing some really illegal shit.
Really, we’re just going to go for beers at a covert location next week because I’m seriously dying a slow and horrible death out here.
I don’t have the kind of bromance with Rob where I feel like I can just up and text him, but I’m seriously up against a wall. I pull out my phone. A new phone which I just recently bought. I’ll buy Rob and my parents new ones next week too, or at least new SIM cards with new numbers, so if anyone out there is trying to trace shit, they’ll hit a dead end.
I have three numbers on this new phone. Mom’s, dad’s, and Rob’s. It’s the middle of the day, and Rob is probably at work. Out of the two of us, he is definitely the more studious one. He works as a foreman, so I like to joke that he doesn’t really work at all, but in reality, I know he busts his ass. I send off a hopeful text anyway.
Wade: Slowly dying here. What about you?
I limit the amount of communication I have with anyone, and it’s the only text I’ve sent to Rob in two weeks. I text my parents once a week to let them know I’m still alive. If I didn’t, my mom would probably panic and blow my cover by hiring a PI to find me. Yeah. That’s right. They don’t know exactly where I’m staying, just that I bought a house in the suburbs to lay low for a bit. My mom is literally the worst at keeping a secret.
Surprisingly, my phone lights up.
Rob: Dying? You’re supposed to be on vacation.
Wade: Forced vacations are never cool.
Rob: Find something to do.
Wade: That’s kind of hard when you can’t actually go anywhere.
Rob: I’m sure the house could use some attention. Even if it doesn’t, give it a facelift anyway. It would help fill the days.
Wade: Maybe. It is outdated.
Rob: You could order all the materials in. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll use my name and my credit card.
Wade: Thanks. I’ll let you know.
Rob: You know, now that you’re ridiculously filthy rich, did you take a suitcase of money out there, empty it out on the bed, and roll in it?
Wade: That’s just weird. This isn’t 1975.
Rob: Still. I’d consider it. Just for the experience.
Wade: I heard it leads to papercut injuries. I can’t afford a trip to the ER. That would blow my cover.
Rob: You’ll only get papercut injuries if you roll in it naked. Which is just weird. Please don’t roll in your cash naked. I don’t want to think about that. That crosses the boundaries of friendship. If you do, please burn it after.
Wade: Isn’t it illegal to deface money?
Rob: If you burn it, wouldn’t that get rid of the evidence?
Wade: I need something to do. It’s been a month. The boredom is going to slay me.
Rob: Like I said, get to work. Let me know what you need. Text me. My email goes through the company server. It’s not secure.
Wade: Are you are going to delete these after, or will your phone spontaneously self-destruct?
Rob: I wish. Make the next one you said you’ll buy for me, a little more spy-like.
Wade: You wouldn’t know what to do with all that technology.
Rob: Ouch. Right in the heart.
Wade: I think people say, “in the feels” now.
Rob: That sounds perverted. I have to get back to work, though. There’s this kid hell-bent on framing these walls at an angle. The whole building would have a slant if he had his way.
Wade: Is he drunk?
Rob: I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. You know all about working in this industry. Not drunk, but hungover. I think that’s just as bad. Anyway, one of us has to earn an honest living, so I better get off the phone.
Wade: Beers on Tuesday?
Rob: You’re coming down here?
Wade: I still live in this city.
Rob. Right. I should ask if you’re coming back to civilization.
Wade: Hilarious. On Tuesday, I am. My mom needs living proof that I’m still alive, and it isn’t a robot sending texts.
Rob: Send me the details. I’ll delete all the texts after. And tell me what disguise you’ll be in. I don’t want to show up guessing.
Wade: That would be something I’d like to see.
Rob: If you alter ego me and use it as a lifelong private joke, I’m going to find out where you live and egg your house eighth grade Halloween night style.
Wade: I wish you would. At least cleaning it up would give me purpose.
Rob: You have purpose. In the form of billions of dollars. Just figure out how to use it.
I send the thumbs up emoji because I have no idea how to answer that. I’m not just supposed to be hiding out here. I’m supposed to be figuring out how to live my life now. But one thing is certain; it’s not going to look like this.
While I have my phone out, I fire off a text to my mom.
Wade: Still alive. Don’t worry. Don’t phone the cops. I know it’s been a couple of days, so I’m checking in.
Not even half a second later, my phone beeps.
Mom: Very funny. I’ve been worried! Did you bring enough pairs of underwear? Or should I buy you some for the next time you visit?
Wade: (skull and crossbones emoji, brain exploding emoji) Thanks, but I have enough. I do know how to operate the washer and dryer.
Mom: Just checking. Are you eating okay?
Wade: I’m surviving. Coming back Tuesday. I’ll text you the details that morning.
Tomorrow is Monday. I know I can confirm with Rob, but I don’t dare send my mom the details until a few hours before I get to my parent’s house. I’ll have to figure out some way to slip in without being noticed. Probably under the cover of darkness after I’m done having beers with Rob. Cab it and run into the house through the back alley. That might work.
After I disappeared, the journalists gave my parent’s house a break, so as long as there aren’t any more camping out still, I should be good to go. Just in case, I’ll be sure to bring along a disguise and change in the back seat of the cab.
Jesus. I can’t believe this is what my life has boiled down to—covert cab rides and fake mustaches.
The sound of humming drifts through the kitchen window I cracked open earlier in the morning. It’s scorching out there, and hearing the pleasant little trill reminds me that I left it open, and all the hot air from the summer day is getting into the house. The air conditioner barely keeps up. Maybe I should look at it. I’m no plumber or repairman, but I am a lot like my dad. Even before I studied carpentry and worked in the trades as a finishing carpenter, I could do a little bit of everything here and there. My mom calls me and my dad her Mister Fix-Its.
I set my phone down on the couch where I had been sitting and stalk through to the kitchen. I lower the window quickly, but I can’t resist a peek through the mostly closed blinds.
My neighbor, Lu-Anne, is out in her backyard. I can barely make her out from the angle I’m at, but since her back deck is huge and high, she’s visible above the fence from the shoulders up. They’re a pretty fine set of shoulders too. She has a dark head of mahogany hair shot through with red highlights, which dance in the sunlight.
She’s puttering around out there, doing something on her deck. I think she’s watering her plants out there, but it’s hard to tell. It’s the middle of the day, and over the past month, I’ve come to realize she doesn’t keep regular hours.
I only know her name because she hangs out on her back deck quite a bit. She has a friend, Leanne, which is confusing. They’ve used each other’s names a few times out there on the deck. I know Lu-Anne also has a brother. I admit that a seed of jealousy sprouted in my chest when I spotted her out there with a fairly good-looking guy, laughing and talking so comfortably. Then I realized, from their conversation about their parents, that he was her brother, and I felt ridiculous.
In my defense, there isn’t much else to do here except gawk at my pretty neighbor through the blinds and eavesdrop on her conversation through my open windows.
I watch her dart about on her deck. Her mahogany hair is long, and it swings wild and free around her shoulders. When she bends, it transforms into a beautiful lustrous curtain, and I get little glimpses of her face, which is gorgeous. She’s one of those classic beauties, where all her features are in perfect alignment in just the right proportions. I know she has dark eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones, but I wish I knew what she looked like below the shoulders.
I’ve imagined it, though.
More than once.
I give my head a shake and drop the blinds down. God, I’m pathetic. I’ve surmised Lu-Anne doesn’t have a regular schedule since I’ve seen her out and about at all hours. I’ve gathered she’s either unemployed or self-employed. As far as I know, she doesn’t have a boyfriend or any kids, so it’s strange that she lives out here, alone, in a sea of family homes.
Other than that, I also know her friend, Leanne, has a crush on her history professor, which Lu-Anne likes to bug her about. I also know she has a penchant for sticking large pieces of furniture and other antique items into her tiny hatchback car, which happens to be neon blue. Oh, and she likes to do yard work and have wine on her back deck. But besides all that, I know nothing about her.
Maybe I could go over and introduce myself.
Then again, I know it isn’t an option. It doesn’t matter if I’m intrigued. I can’t blow my cover. If I did, this whole escapade would have been for nothing. I can’t have it be for nothing. I won’t survive another round of this.
Find something to do. Don’t just sit around on your ass, feeling sorry for yourself.
Rob mentioned renovations. Right. I know how to do that. The house isn’t a dump, but it is outdated. I can fix that. I will fix the shit out of it.
Maybe if I keep busy, I’ll actually be able to clear my mind and figure out what my next move is going to be. What all my moves are going to be. This is my life now. I need to go from point A—creeping on my neighbor and feeling sorry for myself—to point B—figuring out how to make the best of a life I never planned for… including the three billion dollars.
CHAPTER 3
Lu-Anne
I’m ashamed to say that before I go to bed, I do my usual sweep of the neighbor’s house. It’s two in the morning, and a few lights are still on in the house, but he never makes an appearance.
I refuse to be disappointed as I slip between the sheets and turn off the lamp on the nightstand by the bed. The room is pitch black, but I can’t sleep. I don’t have any excuse. I worked hard at my travel articles today. I watered and weeded all the plants on the deck and did the same for the small garden, which I’ve successfully managed to make thrive in the yard in planter boxes. I actually cooked dinner for myself instead of just having a bowl of cereal, and I also made muffins since I was bored. After that, I took a book onto the deck and relaxed for a few hours to wind down.
I should be tired.
But, of course, I’m not.
I lay in bed, watching the occasional shadow flit across the ceiling. It doesn’t happen very often since no one drives around the neighborhood in the middle of the night. Usually.
I force myself to keep my eyes closed. I count to a hundred. I count again. And again. But, I’m still wide awake. I’m so far from sleep that I feel like I can spring out of bed and literally go and run a marathon. Okay, maybe a half marathon. Or more like walk a couple of blocks. The point is, I’m jittery. I’m full of restless energy, and I have no outlet for it.
Maybe I should just get up and do some work. That way, if I can’t sleep, I’ll have a head start for tomorrow, even if I get up in the afternoon. My sleep has always been pretty messed up, which is one of the reasons I’m self-employed.
I force myself to try and go to sleep for a few more minutes, but when it still does not work, I reach over in agitation to the nightstand and grab my phone. I turn it on, nearly blinding myself with the bright light of the screen. Rolling onto my side, I consider dimming the screen and finishing the e-book I started on the deck tonight. It was pretty good. Not stellar, but entertaining.
When I am finally able to glance at the screen again without my eyes pouring a river of tears at the blinding light, I realize the wall by my bed is lit up.
And there, only a few inches in front of my face, is a giant, black, hairy, malicious, bastard of a spider.
“Holy shit!” I launch my phone at the wall and leap out of bed on instinct. My hands fly all over the place, swatting at myself like the spider might have had a mate and was planning to do some fine dining on yours truly while I was sleeping—a freaking spider date. Maybe they were going to bring their spider babies out too and make it a family dinner.
“Argh!” I swat harder at myself and start leaping around the room frantically.
I finally fly over to the other side of the room towards the light. Along the way, I manage to bang my shin, hard, on the dresser. Cursing, I clutch my leg and hop on the other until I finally get to the switch. The room lights up, and the evil spider, which is about the size of my fist—and I might just be eyeballing it here and not exaggerating at alllllll—is still there on the wall, eyeing me up like it owns the place.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not getting back into bed if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The spider stares back at me. I imagine it lifting one hairy leg and shaking it at me and barking spidery commands. I shudder when I think about that thing getting in bed with me. It might think it’s romantic, but I definitely do not.
“You could never seduce me. I’m sorry. I just don’t find you attractive. Does that hurt your feelings?”
It doesn’t move one inch.
“I could get you something to eat. I have some ground beef in the fridge. Or maybe I could move you to the garden?”
I realize how crazy it is that I’m standing here having a conversation with a spider. I think fast and decide that trapping the bastard is my best chance. I can’t just get a shoe and do it in. It’ll splatter all over the wall, and the wall is white. I can’t handle cleaning up spider guts and goo with a cloth and then looking over and thinking about the final moment of
splatter and squish. No. Heck no. I can’t do it.
I turn and run down the hall, down the stairs, and straight into the kitchen. I don’t have an empty jar, so I settle on two large glasses. If I can put one over the spider, maybe it’ll crawl in, and then I can use the other glass to trap it by putting the mouths up against each other. I’ll carry it down and set the glasses in the back yard. They’ll fall away from each other, and it can just crawl on out and go about his lovely little spider life.
Despite my resolution, by the time I make it back to the bedroom, I’m shivering, and not because it’s cold. The spider is still there in the same spot, taunting me. I shiver harder. The glasses in my hands start to vibrate.
“You think you’re so smart, daring me to capture you. If I come near you, you have to promise not to spring at me. If you touch me, I know I’ll die, and let me tell you, my death throes will be violent. I’ll kill you too, so you better behave.”
I imagine the spider laughing at me with its spidery little laugh. In my head, it sounds a little bit like an old lady cackle. The scary kind from fairy tales before the evil old biddy gets up to no good.
I edge closer. The spider doesn’t move. “Are you actually going to cooperate? Please cooperate. Please. Please. Please don’t leap at me.”
The spider still doesn’t move. It stays there, a big black blot on the white wall. I nearly lose my courage completely when I think about how close it got to me. When I was in the kitchen, it could have moved off the wall and hidden in my bed. Now that would have been a disaster.
I edge closer and kneel on the bed. The spider still doesn’t move. It is flat, and its legs are long. Its body is not really that big, but it is kind of flat too. It is mainly all legs, and it looks like the kind that would enjoy sucking my blood. It looks fast, too, with those long legs. I imagine this guy will do well in the spider Olympics if it was a thing.
I reach out carefully, the glass extended in front of me. I’m hoping to place it around the spider, trapping it where it is, and I’ll wait for it to crawl into the glass. I’ll wait as long as I have to. I just have to get the glass a little closer. Just a little more…
