Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Alec
“Let me get this straight. You want me to have my people run a background check on your new neighbor?” Eddie repeats, like he’s checking whether I’ve hit my head.
“Alec, buddy . . . are you afraid she’s part of the PTO?
Gonna make you sell cookie dough? I wouldn’t mind ordering some of those cinnamon braids they sell close to the holidays. ”
“You’re not taking this seriously, Edgar,” I warn him, though I’m not even sure what I’m warning him about. My voice comes out tight enough that a passing woman yanks her tiny dog closer like I’m a threat.
Fair. I do sound unhinged.
“It’s hard to when you’re not making sense,” Eddie says, and I can practically hear the eye roll. “Start from the top. What exactly happened?”
What happened?
Chaos. That’s what happened.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare ahead, like the brownstone across the street might hold the answers.
“I just spent the last hour rearranging a dead woman’s penthouse so we could cram a pile of mysterious boxes inside without blocking the hallway.
And then I had to let that . . . that woman and her tiny interrogation officer into my morning. ”
“Mila, her daughter, right?” he asks.
“Don’t say her name like she’s adorable.”
“She sounds fucking adorable.”
“She is a menace,” I hiss. “She asked me why I don’t like children. With a notebook. And a pen. She started taking notes about me, Eddie. Notes.”
Eddie hums thoughtfully. “Well . . . maybe she’ll publish a biography. That could be good for your career if she does it right.”
“You’re not fucking helping,” I mutter.
A taxi blares at someone crossing against the light. My heart lurches at the noise. I was already wound tight, but now everything inside me feels like piano wire.
The boxes.
The tea.
The fucking questions that wouldn’t stop.
Everything that’s been happening since I arrived into Seattle. Why did I come back?
“It’s probably the boxes,” I say before I can stop myself. “They look . . . old. And important. And what if she never leaves because she can’t get through all of them? I tried to pay her to leave—”
“You did what?”
“I tried to pay her to leave,” I repeat.
“The woman lost her aunt and you . . .” Eddie groans on the other side. “I swear they don’t pay me enough for this.”
“We haven’t paid you in years, babe,” Barret, one of his partners, says on the other side. “Is Alec okay?”
“I’m trying to figure this out,” he says.
“I’m still here,” I remind him.
Eddie exhales softly. “Of course, and let me say that I’m sorry for your loss, man.”
“What loss?” I snap too fast because, fuck, what part of ‘I need a background check and maybe to borrow your island’ doesn’t he understand?
He’s quiet for a beat. “You cared about Mrs. Lafferty. Even when you pretended you didn’t.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Alec,” he says in that voice—calm, warm, annoyingly perceptive—“please tell me you’re not in denial.”
“I am not—” I hear myself raising my voice and immediately lower it. People start looking when six-foot-two guys bark into phones on sidewalks. “I am not in denial. I’m on my way to therapy. That’s practically the opposite of denial. Plus, I don’t need a babysitter. I need a background check.”
“Good,” Eddie says, and I hate how relieved he sounds. “You know I’m not babysitting you. I’m just checking in.”
“Sure, you say you’re not babysitting, but I hear the tone.”
“I’m looking after my family,” he says simply. “Sue me.”
I sigh. Loudly. “Edgar, I’m in a good place.”
“You’re spiraling about a woman’s last name and a child that might be Satan’s spawn carrying a pink umbrella.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Her last name doesn’t match Lina’s!”
“So what?” he asks.
“And she might have two last names.”
“Alec . . . tons of people have two last names,” he reminds me. “Barret, Cleo, and I are about to be part of that trend. It’s perfectly normal.”
“There’s something fishy,” I insist. “Something is just not feeling right.”
“That is not—” Eddie stops, regrouping. “Okay. Why exactly do you want me to run a background check on your neighbor?”
“Because what if she’s not who she says she is? What if she’s not actually Lina’s niece and she’s just some . . . some impostor?”
Eddie laughs. Laughs. And it’s irritating enough that my phone nearly ends up in Lake Washington.
“Alec Dominique Horvath, I swear to God. What do you think she’s after? Your vinyl collection?”
Okay, now he’s being obtuse. He knows we don’t speak about my vinyl collection.
I lost half of it because fucking Barret meshed it with Roderick’s and then gave it to Kit—Rod’s wife.
I’m still mourning the loss. Sure, I could go and try to get them back but instead of doing so I was the bigger man and gave it to them as a wedding present.
The fact that I still mourn the loss is a different issue though.
So, I focus on Mara. “She gave me tea to replace my coffee,” I say darkly.
“The horror.”
“It had fucking lavender.”
“Oh, no.”
“And chamomile.”
“Unthinkable.”
“And she chirps like a fucking sparrow.”
He goes silent for a long moment. “Okay, that one I can see how it’d be a big problem.”
I sidestep a tourist group while gripping the phone harder than necessary. “Look, can you just do it? Or not even her. Do a background check on Lina. Confirm everyone she’s related to. If this Mara person is an impostor, I want to know.”
“That seems intrusive,” he says.
“It probably is,” I admit, “but I’m trying to prevent my life from becoming a disaster zone. They are fucking intrusive.”
“Buddy,” he sighs, “your life was a disaster zone long before this woman showed up.”
“That’s fucking rude.”
“The truth can always be uncomfortable, not rude,” he corrects.
I stop at a crosswalk, pacing a little at the curb like a broken metronome. Traffic whooshes by, horns blare, a bus exhales exhaust. I hate this city today. I usually tolerate it, but today it feels like cement, noise, and people who breathe too close.
“Look,” Eddie says more softly, “I’ll run the check. Not on her—on Mrs. Lafferty. I’ll pull records, wills, relatives, everything. If your new neighbor doesn’t come up, you’ll be the first to know.”
I narrow my eyes at nothing. “That sounds . . . helpful.”
“It is,” he says patiently, “but mostly it’s my attempt to stop you from going full green rage monster.”
“We agreed you’d stop calling me that.”
“We agreed, yeah. But here we are.”
I make a strangled noise and start walking again. “Fine. Do your thing.”
“Already on it,” he says. “Now breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Try harder.”
I hang up before he starts in on meditation techniques like he knows how to calm a beast. My hands are shaking.
Why the hell are my hands shaking?
I shove both hands into my pockets and turn onto the quieter street of my therapist’s office is. Maybe he can help me—or give me a prescription to relax far away from my new neighbor until she’s gone. I would hate it, but that might be the only solution, right?