Chapter Three
Oliver
I wake up with a smile on my face that immediately turns into a grimace. My back reminds me I’m not a twenty-year-old who can just sleep on any flat surface willy-nilly. I look back at the lumpy couch and dock it down to the flat-passing surface list.
I barely slept last night, jerking awake every few hours, drenched in sweat and heart racing. Since it's Saturday, my alarm didn’t go off, and the sun is already up and shining.
I slowly drag myself to the kitchen and kick the coffee machine on. Once the coffee hits my system, everything from yesterday comes flooding back.
The force of the dam opening in my head makes me drop down on my kitchen stool.
I close my eyes, trying to picture the guy I saw on the stairs again. All I can see is him crawling on his hands and legs at superspeed. But maybe Matt’s right. The guy could have been on drugs.
The couple of times I've run into him, he’s only ever grunted in response to my greetings. He seemed like a total asshole.
But why were his eyes glowing in the dark?
Only one way to find out. Going directly to the source.
I finish my coffee, rouse myself out of my sleep slump, and get dressed.
I grab my keys and slam the door behind me. We’re getting this mystery solved one way or another. I need my dead-to-the-world sleep back.
I take the elevator to the eighth floor. The hallway is noisy with the sounds of kids fighting in the apartment across from 8D.
I knock on Dalton’s door and wait.
And wait some more.
I knock again, shifting from one foot to another. The fight across the hall is getting louder.
Still no response.
I give up after the third knock. Guess he’s not back from his bender yet.
I trudge back to my apartment, already thinking of a new plan. I’m about to go prepare breakfast when it hits me.
I had dinner with Matt Hale, didn’t I?
In all the suspense, confusion, and anxiety, my mind forgot to process how easy it was to talk to Matt yesterday. How he took care of me when he found me looking, hopefully, like a cute deer caught in the headlights and not a possum halfway through a mental breakdown.
And didn’t he have a date over? He postponed getting laid for me? I must have looked dreadful.
That brings me back to why I looked miserable. I know I saw something strange. The problem is telling people I saw a man bigger than his normal size, crawling faster than humanly possible, with golden, almost glowing, eyes. That is how you get sent to a psych ward.
Hell, it sounded crazy even to me. And I write for a paranormal teenage drama.
The fact is, I can’t focus on anything else until I know what happened last night. So, I need to find the man from 8D.
Actually, that shouldn’t really be an issue.
I go to my kitchen and fish out leftover muffins.
I plate them nicely and cover them with a tissue.
I take the elevator down to the lobby, then the stairs to the basement, where the landlord’s office is.
I've never actually been in his office. I hope he's in.
If he is, the suck-up muffins can work their magic and get me some information on the missing man.
These muffins have achieved way more than a name and number. I once convinced my boss to change my shift to when the tips were the highest. I even won a large teddy bear for my best friend at a fair without throwing a ring. All with a couple of these bad boys. Today, I had four!
I carefully make my way to his door. It’s slightly ajar. I knock anyway. First impressions are everything. Or the hundredth, in this case.
A grunt responds. I interpret it as, “Come in, come in. I’ve been craving some company here for so long. You’re my savior,” and step inside.
Inside is just as dark as the outside. There’s a desk in the corner with a large figure on the chair. The only sound is a regular scritch-scritch. Something sharp moving over wood, maybe?
There are also tiny birds on every surface of the room. What the hell kind of taxidermy nightmare is this place? My soul leaves my body for a second, wanting no part in this little adventure.
I straighten up and walk inside. What’s the worst that could happen?
I immediately run into a shelf, and one of the birds falls off.
I scream. The scritching stops. The lights suddenly switch on, and I'm staring at a wooden painted bird on the ground. I pick it up and look at it. It's intricately carved and beautifully painted.
Huh, maybe I’m still freaked out from yesterday.
Just below the ceiling light sits Mike, our landlord, looking furious. “Did you hurt Colby?”
I look behind me to see if I hurt someone, then notice the bird in my hand. “Oh, Colby! No, Colby is great.” I place it (him?) back on the shelf and walk up to Mike.
“I had some muffins left over that I thought I'd bring to you,” I say with the biggest smile on my face.
His anger drains out of him, and he smiles. His face transforms from a stern old man to a beloved grandpa. “I love muffins!”
I place the plate on his desk. “Perfect.” I pull a chair in front of his desk and sit down. “They’re blueberry,” I tell him, pushing the plate closer.
“That’s my favorite.” He picks one from the plate and takes a bite. He closes his eyes and hums. “It's delicious.”
I know, Mike, I know. But I still smile. “Thank you. So I was looking for the guy who lives in 8D. Any idea where he might be?” I mentally kick myself for my lack of tact.
Mike doesn't seem to mind. He's still chewing the muffin happily. “8D, that's Dalton Smith. Haven’t seen him around much. Pays rent on time. Weird man.” Ha, whatever you say, Mike I-Sit-in-the-Dark-Carving-Wooden-Birds-and-Give-Them-Last-Names. Beautiful carve job, though.
“You haven’t talked to him a lot?”
“No, I don’t need to know the personalities of the bank accounts that pay the rent.”
I lean back on the chair, thinking. “Do you have his number?” I ask, not even trying to be casual anymore. I immediately regret it.
Mike stops eating and looks at me. “Why do you need it?”
To ask him why he looked almost inhuman yesterday. I think Mike would chase me away with his bird army or lock me in here with them if I said that. “I had to pay him back some money I owed him.”
That's convincing. I pat myself on the back for thinking on my feet. Maybe I was made for this detective shit.
“Hm,” he says. “Well, his loss.” He goes back to eating the muffin.
Okay, maybe I spoke too soon. “So, do you?” I push.
He looks annoyed with the interruption. “Do I what?”
“Have his number?”
He looks guilty for a second before he schools his expression back to furious. “I’m not giving you his number.” He nods like he’s particularly satisfied with his answer. Definitely weird.
Looks like all my goodwill for bringing the muffins has already worn off. Alright then. “What did you say his last name was again?”
“Smith,” he says nicely enough. Maybe I can talk to his neighbors and look him up on social media. Full name plus last known address has to narrow the search down.
“Do you need anything else?” Mike’s rough voice brings me back to the eerie basement.
Clearly, I’ve overstayed my welcome. I take the hint and leave.
Done with my rookie investigating for the day, I get back to my work that pays the bills. I still need to prepare for the next season of The Pack.
I spend the rest of the day coming up with new pitches. Despite all the crazy drama, exaggerated plotlines, and mindbending lures, writing for the show is my dream job. I still can’t believe I’ve been doing it for almost a year, and I don't mind working over the weekend in the slightest.
A knock on the door is what finally stops my furious typing.
When I look up, my neck complains, sore from my uncomfortable sitting position.
Fuck, I need to get a proper desk already.
Thinking it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of complaints, my stomach decides to chime in and remind me I skipped lunch.
When I open the door, I'm surprised to find Matt standing there in his casual T-shirt, this time red, and grey sweatpants. His hair is still wet.
When he sees me, a smile breaks across his face. Dimples pop on each cheek. My entire world narrows in on those two dips beneath his five o’clock shadow.
He tilts his head.
Shit, I’m staring again!
“Came to check up on you. How are you doing?” he asks.
Warmth floods my chest, but a voice from deep inside my mind insists he thinks I’m a few marbles short.
“I’m great,” I say. It comes out a little terse.
He holds up a takeout bag, ignoring my tone. “Got dinner. Have you eaten already?”
Something in my stomach flutters. I dismiss it as a cry for help from my empty stomach and let him in.
He makes a beeline for my kitchen and starts plating the food. He brings two plates to the couch and sits down, leaning back. The couch groans under his considerable bulk, which he ignores.
I convince myself that Matt’s just doing his neighborly duties. That doesn’t stop the slow smile spreading across my face.
I sit on the opposite end of the couch, a distance relatively safer for my heart’s health.
“By the way, I went to check up on the guy upstairs.”
“Jesus?” he jokes.
“No, I mean, the guy I saw running away yesterday.”
“What?” his smile is gone. “Alone?”
“Yeah, it's just three floors up,” I say, confused by his reaction. I take a small bite of my burrito.
“Did you talk to him?” he asks hesitantly.
“He wasn't there,” I say, still chewing. This is so unattractive.
“Oh.” His face relaxes a bit.
“So I talked to the landlord to check what's up with him.”
“What?” he repeats, a little annoyed.
“Yeah, he wasn’t very helpful, even though he couldn’t stop inhaling my muffins,” I huff. Clearly, I wasn’t over the loss.
“You had muffins with the landlord?”
“No, I brought him muffins to get the grumpy guy’s number, Matt. Keep up.” I take another bite of my burrito. Stop eating while talking, Oliver!
“That makes sense,” he says, his tone sarcastic. “Wait, did he give you the number?”
Way to rub it in, Matt! “No, he didn’t,” I grumble.
“At least you tried,” he says.
All that was missing was a pat on my head, and he would be the perfect proud grandfather.
“Besides, I reached out to his family. They moved him to a rehab facility just this morning,” he continues.
And he let me blab on and on about my amateur and unsuccessful investigation? Wait. “How did you reach out to his family?”
“I have a friend in LAPD,” he says, casually.
But that didn’t explain so many other things. I consider telling Matt that the guy looked up at me, but dismiss it. He would think I’m being paranoid.
We talk about work. Matt tells me about every single time he has rescued cats from a tree in his ten years as a firefighter. For the record, it only happened three times.
I laugh, chat, and have a great time, but my brain can't stop thinking about how that guy didn't look like he was on drugs.
After the dinner, he leaves, reminding me to lock the door properly before walking away.