Chapter 32
By the time the handyman finishes fixing the door frame, adding a multi-point locking system, and installing a door cam—one can never be too secure—darkness has settled in for an early night.
My porch feels like the opening scene of a true-crime reenactment, minus the dramatic foreboding music.
He wipes his hands on his cargo pants and steps back, admiring his work like he just performed heart surgery instead of sticking a camera above my door.
“There,” he declares proudly. “All installed.”
His voice is too chipper for the hour. Or for anyone working customer service past eight o’clock at night.
“Thanks,” I say, hugging my arms to my chest. The evening air bites harder than usual as Doomwood Falls is heading deeper into autumn.
The handyman doesn’t leave. Instead, he lingers on the porch, his eyes darting over my house the way someone looks for security before robbing a store blind. “Quiet neighborhood,” he comments.
“That’s what the brochure said,” I reply.
There’s another awkward pause. He shifts his weight and his boots squeak. And then casually he asks, “So, have you heard anything new about that Ivory Cobb disappearance? She lived across the street, didn’t she?”
How does he know that I know Ivory? Or that I know anything about her disappearance?
I force my expression into something neutral, probably failing miserably. “Why would I know anything about that?”
“Small town. People talk.” But his eyes stay locked on mine, which makes me squirm.
“Oh, well, I don’t know anything that the news hasn’t already told us.”
“Huh, is that so?” He backs away finally, giving me a little two-finger salute. “Well, you take care. Keep an eye on that feed. You never know who’s out there.”
Oh great. I love when random handymen drop vague horror movie warnings before sprinting off into the night. Nothing says sleep well like a stranger implying I’m being watched. The minute his work van disappears down the road, I hurry inside.
Luca’s sprawled on my couch, one sock on, one sock halfway through losing a fight with gravity. The TV casts a bluish glow over the room as he absently watches some action movie. Guns. Explosions. Men screaming. Typical soothing background noise.
I flop down beside him, opening the door cam app to get familiar with the settings.
“You get it working?” Luca asks without looking away from the TV.
“Yeah. But the guy who installed it was weird.”
“Everyone’s weird. Especially around here. I swear something’s off about this neighborhood. Can’t trust anyone.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Says the man who’s done jail time for robbing his own roommate.”
Luca doesn’t smile. That’s when I know he’s about to say something sobering.
“Seriously, Shari. I think it’s time to move on.”
“Again? I’m tired of running. There’s a point when my parole officer is going to start asking questions or telling me no. Besides, soon there will be nowhere left to go.”
“Running is better than dead.”
The video feed refreshes on my phone. That’s odd.
The handyman’s van is parked out front, and I watch the image on my screen with an unsettling sensation…
not fear, but dread. I watched him leave, so why is he back?
There’s no movement in his van’s interior, no human shape at the steering wheel. In fact, there’s no sign of him at all.
“Where the heck are you?” I mutter to myself, and Luca glances at me like chatting with my phone is something I do all the time. Though with people dating their AI these days, maybe I’m not as crazy as I think.
The curve of a head draws my attention to the corner of the video, where the handyman comes into view.
He’s lingering somewhere near my windows, most of his body out of sight, but I catch the occasional glimpse of a body part moving in and out of the screen.
When he does come fully into the door cam’s view, he’s holding something up, aiming it at the house.
Is he video recording my home? I tap the image to enlarge it, and sure enough, he is! Behind him the street is an eerie, foggy dark, and the streetlamp smears him with pale, spectral light. Luca leans over my shoulder, watching this unfold.
“Why is he just standing there?” Luca growls.
It’s a terrible new normal I’ll have to get used to. I did it once before, I can do it again. I’m reminded of the news crews scrambling for an interview when I was dealing with the embezzlement trial. People love a good show, and suddenly I’m once again in the spotlight.
“He’ll go away soon, once he gets his footage,” I try to convince myself. I mean, he can’t stand out in our yard all night.
“Like hell he will!” Luca jumps up from the sofa, readjusts his fallen sock, and storms to the front door.
“Please don’t engage!” I beg, dreading the price tag of another bail bond to get my brother out of jail for assault a second time this week. “You will only make it worse.”
My pulse trip-hammers in my neck as the anxiety of more chaos rushes through me. I can’t handle anything more.
Luca swings open the door to yell at the handyman a moment too late. The guy is already traipsing across the lawn toward Fred’s house now, probably hoping to use this in his next podcast, because even handymen probably have podcasts. I can already envision this week’s topic:
Serial Killers Hate This One Upgrade (Handymen don’t catch killers, we disappoint them)
From my screen I watch him stand in front of Fred’s house for a minute doing exactly the same thing, videotaping whatever boring footage he thinks viewers will want to see.
Fred isn’t quite as accommodating as I am.
He almost immediately confronts him, which means he’s one step ahead and probably already has a door cam.
The handyman wisely dashes off, and I’m relieved when his van turns the corner and doesn’t U-turn to come back.
But Fred is still standing there as if inspecting his property.
All I can think is that he’s taken lives—first Ivory, then Janet.
Two women, two disappearances. Two unsolved cases.
And Fred, somehow, is still living his normal life across the street with his daughter like his senior superlative isn’t Most Likely to Have a Body in His Freezer.
And then there’s the mistress—the mysterious unknown woman no one’s been able to identify. The one who might be missing. Or dead.
Then something unthinkable occurs to me. I haven’t seen Freida since the day I confronted Fred.
“Luca,” I block the television with my body to demand his undivided attention, “have you seen Freida lately?”
He barely glances up at me. “No, I tried calling but she won’t answer. All she did was send me a text that she needs space. You know, because of her mom.”
“So you haven’t spoken to her or seen her in person?”
Luca shuts off the television. “What are you trying to say, Shari? Spit it out.”
“I haven’t seen Freida, and neither have you—her boyfriend. Do you think Fred would do something to her?”
Luca’s eyes widen with horror, and I can read his thoughts because they’re the same as mine: There’s nothing a serial killer wouldn’t do.