Chapter Four
Olive
Stakeouts are boring.
On TV, they seem exciting. You have a partner, deep conversation, and some laughs. There's usually something to see. In reality, you down a pint of ice cream, argue with a Yorkie, and stare out your window at literally nothing until your eyes burn.
I'm three hours in, and I'm bored out of my mind. The only interesting thing I've seen is the shirtless picture of Henry Cavill that Sarah texted me two hours ago.
Mason's lights went out an hour ago, and I haven't heard a peep from his place. Not one.
"This is the worst idea ever," I mutter to Oscar.
He cracks one eye open to look at me, snorts, and then burrows under his blanket like he'd prefer if I minded my business and left him out of it.
I sigh, standing to stretch. My legs are cramping from sitting in the kitchen chair I pulled up in front of the bedroom window. I pace around the room, pausing to turn on the television. I might as well have a little entertainment, right? Right.
I gather up my trash, deposit it in the trash can in the kitchen, and then stride back to the bedroom, determined to give it another hour before I give up for the night.
I'm halfway through a rerun of Downton Abbey, trying not to fall asleep in my chair, when a shrill sound cuts through the room. I jump, nearly falling out of my chair. Even Oscar pops out from beneath the blanket, his ears back as he tries to figure out where the sound came from.
"Murder! Murder! Help! This is murder!"
I bolt to the window, my heart pounding like a jackhammer.
"What the fuck?" I whisper, my voice shaking. "What the actual fuck?"
Oscar growls.
"Help! Help! Murder!"
"I was right. Holy shit. I was right, Oscar."
Oscar barks softly, pacing on the bed.
"Mason does have some poor woman chained up in his house."
I panic for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Do I rush over there and rescue her? Do I call for back-up? I should definitely call for back-up, right?
I scramble for my phone, knocking it onto the floor before I finally manage to get my hands on it. It takes two tries before I manage to dial emergency services.
"9-1-1, where is your emergency?"
"My neighbor has someone chained up in his basement!" I cry.
"Uh…can you repeat that?"
"Um, I think my neighbor has someone chained up in his basement," I hiss into the phone, my face pressed to the glass. There's no movement from his house, but there's definitely still screaming. "Someone is screaming for help. They're also screaming murder."
"Oh, wow. Okay. What's the address?"
"My address is 2121 Morning Glory. He lives right beside me in Leticia Marrow's house, the blue one."
"Have you seen anything?"
"No. I just heard screaming."
"How long ago?"
"Twenty seconds?"
"I'm sending officers now," the dispatcher says. "I want you to stay on the line with me, let me know if you see or hear anything else."
"O-okay," I whisper, sinking into the chair because my damn legs feel like they're going to collapse.
"Do you know who your neighbor is?"
"Mason Hudson. He says that he's Letty's nephew. He just moved in last weekend."
"What does he look like?"
"Sex on legs." Shit. That's not what I meant to say. "Um, I mean, he's maybe 6'4" with dark hair, a beard, and crazy blue eyes. He looks like a hot lumberjack."
"A hot lumberjack," the dispatcher says with a surprised chuckle. "Uh, got it. Do you know if he has any weapons?"
"I mean, he's probably a serial killer, so he probably has all kinds of serial killer weapons," I mutter. "They usually have kits, right? I bet he has one of those."
"Have you ever seen him with any weapons?"
"No." I pause. "But he did buy the Serial Killer's Guide to Love by Darcy Quinn at the bookstore, which is all kinds of suspicious, honestly. Oh, and he asked me to help him find this one book about a man who had a woman chained to his bed. He's probably using them for inspiration."
"The bookstore?"
"Yeah, the Book of Love. He's been following me there."
"He's following you?"
"Yes? No? I mean, maybe?" I huff out a breath. "I mean, it's suspicious that he comes to the bookstore only when I'm there, right?"
"Ah…"
"And then he asked me out. Who does that?"
"He followed you to the bookstore and then asked you out?"
"Yes?"
"And now you think he has someone chained up in his house?" the dispatcher asks.
Her tone implies that I'm the one in need of serious intervention here, but I heard what I heard.
I could give him a pass on the books. We listen, and we don't judge.
But we absolutely judge when someone is screaming in your house after you bought those books and you're following your neighbor.
The totality of the evidence does not point to rainbows and butterflies. It points to axe murder and mayhem.
"Are the police coming?" I ask.
"Yes, ma'am. Can I get your name?"
"Olive Medlock."
"Thank you, Ms. Medlock. I'll have an officer make contact with you."
"I thought you needed me to stay on the phone."
"Oh, that won't be necessary," she says. "But please feel free to call back if you see anything suspicious."
Great. She thinks I'm making it up. Awesome.
"Thanks," I mutter, hanging up with a sigh. Maybe I am just being ridiculous and imagining things because my history with men and dating is pathetically awful. But…
"Help! Help! Murder!"
"No," I growl, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not imagining it."
It takes ten minutes before a squad car parks outside of Mason's place. I watch through my window as two officers approach the house. Whoever is inside has stopped screaming.
At least right up until the officers are on the doorstep.
"Murder! Murder! Help! This is murder!"
The sound is muffled from here. I don't think it's muffled from there because a second later, they're pounding on his door, demanding that he open it.
I hold my breath, my heart pounding when his bedroom light immediately flicks on. I'm not sure I breathe at all for the next ten minutes. The screaming keeps coming, though.
"What the fuck?" I press my face to the glass, gaping when the officers reappear in his yard, laughing. He's behind them, shirtless, rumpled…not in handcuffs.
His gaze drifts toward my place.
I duck, praying he didn't see me in the window. I kind of doubt luck is on my side, though. The smirk on his lips says it isn't.
"Crap," I whisper. What the fuck is happening? Why isn't he in handcuffs? The police usually put murderers in handcuffs, right? I know we don't get a lot of crazy murderers around here, but surely the rules aren't that different here than they are anywhere else.
"Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Hudson. You have a good nice."
"Not a problem," Mason rumbles.
"What the fuck?" I whisper again.
But I don't have to wonder what's going on for long.
Not even sixty seconds later, my doorbell rings.
If he didn't already know that I called, he definitely does now.
This is bad. This is so bad.
I stumble toward the living room on wooden legs, confirming through the peephole that the police are standing on my stoop. I quickly smooth my shirt down and then unlock the door.
"Miss Medlock?" Office Whit—according to his badge—asks.
"Yes?"
"You called about an incident involving your neighbor?"
My gaze flickers toward his house. He's no longer standing in the yard, but I feel his eyes on me. He's hiding in the shadows, watching. "Yes," I whisper, my heart thudding unevenly. "Is…is everything okay?"
"The screams you heard are his bird."
I stare at him blankly. "What?"
"The screaming is his bird, ma'am. An African Grey." Officer Whit's lips twitch. "Apparently, she likes Law & Order."
"Really likes it," his partner snorts.
"She's extra salty tonight because he didn't let her watch it before bed."
"Um…" I have no words. Absolutely none.
I just called the police on Mason over a parrot?
This cannot be reality. It cannot.
"We checked the house. Everything is fine over there," Officer Whit says.
"He doesn't even have a basement. He asked us to send his apologies for the noise.
The bird is struggling to settle in since the move.
He said she should calm down in a day or two.
But if you'd like to file a noise complaint… "
Apparently, this is reality.
"That…won't be necessary," I say weakly. "Thanks for letting me know."
"No problem. Have a good night."
Officer Whit and his partner step off the porch.
I close the door.
"Fuck my life," I whimper, sinking to my ass just inside. I called the police on Mason over a bird. He's probably so pissed right now.
I have to move to a different country and change my name. There's no other choice now. Absolutely none.
"You didn't!" Sarah groans bright and early the next morning, staring at me in horror as I brew coffee in the café built into the bookstore. "Please tell me that you're kidding."
"I wish I were," I croak, dumping grounds into the filter. "It was like a trainwreck, Sarah. I know he knows I'm the one who called. The police came to my house as soon as they left his. Like, as soon as."
"So much for discretion," she mutters.
"Right?" I cry, gaping at her. "It's a good thing he isn't a serial killer!"
"At least you're finally ready to admit it." She grins, arranging coffee mugs into orderly rows. "I thought you'd do something drastic first."
"I hate you," I groan, making her giggle. "I'm never living this down. I fucking ninja-rolled to my car just to get out of there without him seeing me this morning. If anyone saw me, they probably think I've lost it!"
"You have," she teases softly. "You called 9-1-1 on a bird."
"You aren't helping!" I cry. "If you'd heard what I did, you would have called too."
"How did you mistake a bird for a woman?" she asks before cracking up.
I glare at her.