Chapter One #2
His eyes are a deep blue beneath thick dark brows.
He is without a doubt the prettiest man I’ve ever seen with those sharp cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw.
And I have now been gaping up at him for an awkward amount of time.
Shit. Which is when I notice the writing on the crumpled envelope in my hand.
The way the pen dug deep into the paper.
No doubt my ex’s thoughts will be gouged into the page in the same way.
It’s been almost a year since he wrote to me.
I wonder what made him think of me now. The ten-year anniversary of his arrest is coming up next month.
He always did make a big deal out of birthdays and important dates.
And Noah is still standing there.
The thing is, there’s no room in my life for crushes. Not while I have this job to do. This awful history hanging over my head.
“Thanks for delivering this,” I say.
Noah nods. “Sure.”
Then I shut the door, slide the deadbolt, and hitch the chain.
Storm clouds gather in the night. The wind rushes past the house, tearing leaves from the trees and shaking their limbs.
Vermont gets its fair share of weather. I love the drama and noise of it all.
The sound of rain on the roof and watching it running down the windowpanes.
Though I do miss lying out in the backyard staring at the stars.
Some days it’s the only time I get outside.
You could say I am indoorsy, and you would not be wrong.
My century-old two-story Craftsman cottage moans and groans. But it has good strong bones to weather the storm. I bought it eight years ago with the inheritance after my grandmother passed. The stress of everything that happened was too much for her heart. Yet another death care of my ex.
Staying in my apartment at that point was out of the question.
It was too well known. People would pose for pictures on the front doorstep, wait for me to appear and yell questions and/or abusive comments.
Then someone added it to an online map for a serial killer–themed road trip and made everything worse.
Dark tourism is truly wild. A local tour still operates several times a week that will take you past my old place and to where Briana Petersen was buried. There’s money to be made on murder.
Lightning flashes and thunder rolls as the storm passes overhead.
Most of the houses on the street sit in darkness since it’s the middle of the night.
I love it when everyone is asleep, and I have the world to myself.
My bedroom is upstairs at the back of the house.
A refuge away from everything. I open the side window to watch it all play out and the scent of petrichor is heavy in the air.
Though it’s hard to see much of what’s happening through the boughs of the big old trees.
The letter from Ryan still has me on edge. Science says he has a heart, but what proof do we have really? I might have been raised to be a kind and peaceful person. But it’s my dream to one day carve out that supposed heart of his. To put an end to the monster once and for all. A girl can dream.
In the meantime, there are his subtle digs in the letter at how weak and codependent he thinks I am.
The painfully polite inquiries about my life.
References to the late-night walks I take, the store where I go grocery shopping, and the short length of my hair.
He said just enough to let me know he has someone watching me.
Hybristophilia is a sexual interest in or attraction to people who commit crimes.
My ex has plenty of fans who write to him and visit.
Any one of them would probably be more than happy to keep an eye on me.
Taking the letter to the local police isn’t an option, though.
Some of them still think I was an accessory.
I haven’t noticed anyone lurking or loitering, but I need to be more careful. More aware of my surroundings.
For now, the security alarm is turned on and everything is fine. That asshole does not get to control me. I refuse to give in to my fear.
Most of the blocks on the street are long and narrow, meaning the buildings are close together.
But this house is in its own little world surrounded by maple, pine, birch, and ash.
Someone wanted their privacy and planted a whole lot of trees a long time ago.
Which is why it’s a shame when lightning strikes scarily close and a shockingly loud crack sounds as a huge branch breaks away from the red maple standing directly outside my bedroom.
The noise shakes my bones as the limb crashes to the ground.
“Holy shit.”
“You can say that again.” And staring back at me from the house next door is my new neighbor.
We’re both standing before open windows in the upstairs levels of our own homes.
This is wild. There can’t be more than eight feet between us.
The tree that got hit is in my yard. He leans out to check the damage and huh.
There’s a whole lot of skin on display. Biceps and pecs and all that.
My heart is not stuck in my throat. It just feels like it is for some reason.
“Are you okay, Sid?” he asks over the noise of the rain.
“Um. Yeah.”
“The fence is trashed.”
At least my hair has been washed this time. Though my tank and sleep shorts are as old as the hills. It’s not like anyone usually sees me before I go to sleep. No idea when I last bought myself something nice to wear. Years most likely.
“Guess you could cut the branch up for firewood,” he continues. “I am happy to help if you need someone to do that.”
“Thank you. I’ll figure something out.”
He braces his hands on the bottom window ledge.
The way the pose displays his biceps is a thing of beauty.
But life experience has taught me not to trust pretty people.
The privilege is real. Studies show they are less likely to be found guilty of a crime or tend to get lower sentences.
My ex was attractive and look where that got me.
I’d been average my whole life. Neither the first nor the last to be selected for sports teams. Just somewhere in the messy middle.
Ryan was the first person to really pick me, and it seemed profound at the time. Not so much these days, however.
“Do you think it’s a sign?” asks Noah.
“A sign of what?”
“That we’re supposed to be friends.”
I cock my head. “You think the universe reached out and smited this tree to get us talking?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Just seems unlikely that it would be some random natural occurrence. I mean…what are the odds?”
The wind and rain start to ease as the storm moves on. Behind him is a mattress made up with dark linens and a tower of boxes stacked against a wall. We can see straight into each other’s bedrooms now.
“I can’t exactly tell if you’re joking or not,” I say. There were nineteen years of normal before my life got derailed. I know how to socialize in theory. It’s just been a while since those skills have been put to use.
He smiles. “Let’s do proper introductions. Noah Allard. I am thirty-five, divorced, and a chef. A friend opened a restaurant and needed some help, so here I am.”
My mouth opens but then closes. I don’t want to be curious about him.
To be honest, this whole conversation is probably a bad idea.
I really can’t afford to get distracted from my mission.
The cadaver dog trainer has agreed to go out with us for one day in six weeks or so and we need to make the most of it.
Last year we searched with ground-penetrating radar.
But the moisture level in the soil made it useless.
Digging holes here, there, and everywhere in nearby national parks isn’t an option.
Then there’s the not insignificant fear that my new neighbor doesn’t know who I am or my history. When he finds out he might well run for the hills. It’s happened before. There’s no good time to share a past like mine. Talk about trauma dumping.
And yet.
“What were you going to say?” he asks.
“Where were you before?”
“L.A.”
“Big change.”
“Yeah. But I was ready to slow down. I needed to,” he says. “What about you?”
“I, um, was born here. I’m twenty-nine.”
He nods encouragingly. “What do you do for a living?”
“Data coordinator.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It pays the bills, and I get to work from home.”
His smile is lopsided. Imperfect. “You’ve lived here your whole life?”
“Yeah. In this part of the country. What’s the restaurant you’re working at like?”
“It’s called The Table at the Church Street Marketplace. My friend Ivy opened it a while back.”
“What sort of things are on the menu?”
“Starters include steak tartare, oysters on the half shell, and a selection of locally sourced cheeses. For salads we have heirloom tomatoes, cucumber, and burrata, or there’s a mix of summer greens with a rhubarb vinaigrette,” he recites.
“Then I would recommend either the prime striploin with green peppercorn sauce and fingerling potatoes, halibut with crispy brussels sprouts, or wild mushroom rigatoni with parmesan and truffles.”
“Wow. What about dessert?”
He grins. “You got a sweet tooth?”
“Let’s just say I could definitely do with some sweetening up.”
“Flourless chocolate cake, rhubarb crème br?lée, or a house-made honeycomb ice cream sound okay?”
“They sound amazing.”
“That’s because they are. You should visit. Let me feed you sometime.”
I smile and try to be normal.
And apparently fail, because he asks, “But you’re not going to, are you? Why is that?”
I am not agoraphobic or anything. The last time I went to a bar with Hana, however, I had to leave. A bartender who knew Briana Petersen saw me and started to cry. Had a breakdown in the middle of happy hour. I don’t want to risk retraumatizing someone just because I’d like a beer.
Vermont has my heart. But there’s a good chance I am going to move to a city on the other side of the country. Once we find the missing women, of course.
“I don’t tend to go out much,” I say.
“You’re a homebody, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you do for fun, Sidney?”
“What do I do for fun?” I raise my brows, search my brain, and come up with absolutely nothing.
Not a single damn thing. I mean there’s dancing in the kitchen while eating cookies straight out of the wrapper.
And there’s reading a romance book on the back porch.
Which, with or without a bottle of wine, is still a guaranteed good time.
But both of those are alone things. I highly doubt they’re the sort of activities that a.
would impress him and b. he’s really asking about.
There’s a small chance Muriel and Hana were right about me needing to get a life.
“That’s a good question. I mean…I’ve heard of the concept. It’s just been a while.”
He waits.
“I might have to think about it.”
He watches me for a moment. Then he glances down at the tangle of tree limbs. “Let me know if I can help you with that, okay?”
“Thanks.”
He gives me a last look before he turns out the light. However, he doesn’t close the window. And I don’t know why, but it feels important.