Chapter 3
Even though I’m standing only a few feet away from the door, I don’t open it right away. I give Brett a chance to ring the doorbell. Repeatedly. Then, as predicted, the pounding starts.
“Open up!” he shouts as he slams his fists uselessly against our door. “Right this minute!”
What a drama queen.
Brett Carlson moved into our neighborhood about a year ago.
I know most of our neighbors fairly well, but I barely know Brett.
All I know is that he works in finance, drives a sports car much too fast, and blasts music in his home office while he’s working, loud enough to bother the whole neighborhood.
He always seems to manage to turn it down just before the police arrive for noise complaints.
Taking my time, I open the door. But before I do, I snatch the box cutter that we keep in a cabinet in the foyer and slip it into the small pocket in the skirt of my dress. Just in case.
Brett is standing on my front porch, his hands balled into fists, his whole face a deep scarlet. He’s glaring at me with menacing eyes. I keep the fingers of my right hand wrapped around the box cutter I’ve tucked away.
“Good morning, Brett!” I say cheerfully. “How can I help you?”
“I know what you did,” he hisses at me. “I know what you did, Debbie! And you’re not going to get away with it!”
I blink at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What on earth do you think I did?”
“I know it was you!” All the veins in Brett’s neck are standing out. “You think after all those noise complaints, I wouldn’t figure it out?”
“Honestly,” I say, “I don’t know what you mean, Brett.”
“My fuse box,” he clarifies. “You went into my basement and snapped off the switch for my office. I’ve got no power in that room. This is going to cost me thousands of dollars to fix!”
I clasp a hand to my chest. “Oh my!”
“Oh my,” Brett repeats mockingly. “You are so full of shit. You hate how loud I play my music, so you cut the power.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I know you’re the one who did it. And you’re going to pay for it, one way or another.”
He looks like he is attempting to shoulder his way inside the house to continue the conversation. I block his entrance, ready to pull out that box cutter if I need to. It won’t come to that though. Brett is all talk.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to your fuse box, Brett.” I furrow my brow. “But I swear it wasn’t me. I barely even know how to use our own! All that wiring stuff…it’s just a big mystery to me. Ask Cooper. He always resets the breakers.”
Brett is still glaring at me, unconvinced. “I know it was you.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Proof?”
I smile politely. “It’s a simple question, Brett.”
“I don’t need proof,” he snaps. “I know it was you.”
I laugh, which only seems to infuriate him. “This is so preposterous. How would I even get into your basement?”
He pauses for only a split second to consider this. “I had a key hidden under the lantern in the backyard. You must’ve figured out it was there.”
It’s true that there are certain naive people who hide the keys to their front door in an easily found location: under a rock, in a flowerpot, or even under the welcome mat.
It’s like sending an engraved invitation to burglars.
When we visit friends, Cooper and I play a little game where I have to guess where the spare key is hidden before we reach the front door.
It always makes him laugh. When we recently visited one of his coworkers for dinner, I informed him their spare key was hidden under a garden gnome by the door.
When we lifted it up, sure enough, there it was.
I have a knack for these kinds of things.
“So you’re saying,” I begin, “that I found this key that you hid in your backyard, and then I broke into your house in the middle of the night and somehow snapped a switch in your fuse box? I’m just a housewife, Brett. You really think I did all that?”
For the first time since Brett showed up, there’s a twinge of uncertainty on his face.
“You know,” I say, “it was probably some teenagers. I saw some surly-looking boys hanging around on the street yesterday evening. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got it in their heads to stir up some trouble.”
That’s not entirely a lie. Zane is always hanging around here, and he’s about as surly as they come.
“I still think it was you.” Brett glares at me from the front porch, although some of the conviction behind his words has subsided. “I might not have any proof, but I’m putting up a camera as soon as I get this fixed.”
“Wonderful idea!” I chirp. “Security cameras are an excellent way to keep your home safe.”
Brett looks like he wants to strangle me with his bare hands. I nearly reach for the box cutter again, but then I stop myself. Instead, I smile up at my neighbor.
“I sure hope they catch the hooligan who did this to you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he mutters, “I’m sure you do.”
With those words, he turns around and storms down the porch steps, casting seething looks over his shoulder the entire time.