4. JOSIE
JOSIE
Everyone has neighbors they secretly want to disappear.
Those who have too much trash in their trash cans so it flies onto your property on windy days.
Those who have parties a tad too late. Whose cat digs into your flowerbeds.
Who slam their car doors too loudly. And the worst ones—those who give you undeserved glares and start rumors behind your back.
The rain has subsided, and as I drive by her house, the elderly woman is outside, by the road, putting out her garbage cans.
She wears a plush robe, an old parka casually thrown over it, her short hair messily tucked under her beanie, and fingerless gloves.
She stands still. One hand grips the rim of the trash can, and the other holds a cigarette.
Her eyes are trained on my car like I’m a thief and she’s the neighborhood watch.
Grandma hates her guts. Apparently, the feeling is mutual. They used to be friends, way before my time, before the incident. That incident ruined many lives and friendships.
Even when I’m rounding the corner a hundred feet beyond her, I see Mrs. Snickett in the rearview mirror, still as a statue, head turned in my direction.
I do feel like a criminal, especially ten minutes later when I approach Fair Road. My heartbeat speeds up the closer I get to the place where the man got hit yesterday.
The freaking rain won’t stop, though today it’s drizzling, the sky the color of wet concrete, weighing down. It’s daytime but so dark that it looks like dusk.
I slow down as I pass the lot where I parked at last night. Another fifty or so feet, and there’s the speed sign, except—
The road is empty.
I swerve to the curb and park, looking around. I shouldn’t. Someone might see me, wonder why I’m parked at the scene of the accident. Except there’s no trace of a crime scene. The road is deserted.
I bite my lip.
Maybe they took him to the hospital? But if the person was in fact dead, and the police had the body, there would be an investigation, right? There would be signs, caution tape, something—anything!
So, if there are none, and there’s no body, then the person is…alive.
Now I wish I’d called the police right away.
Whatever trouble might’ve come of it, it would’ve been easier than the guilt of running away.
That’s the problem with situations like yesterday.
I wasn’t thinking right. Not many people do in those important minutes when something horrible happens, when they are overwhelmed by fear.
I ease the car forward and drive, then speed up in the direction of the diner.
There’s another reason why I want to get to the diner early today, way earlier than my usual manager’s shift at ten.
At eight o’clock almost every morning, the local cops come in for breakfast. This is reality.
Even if you are a troublemaker—and I’m not, I just slipped once—no matter how much you dislike the police, you often go asking for their help.
I don’t need help. But if I want the scoop on what’s happening, I need to be there.