*CHAPTER 3*
Lauren's shift had ended about four hours before mine but she'd refused to leave without a firm promise from me that I'd call her when I was safe in my house with all of the doors and windows locked. She also made me promise that I'd call my Uncle to see if he would come home while the investigation was underway. There was no way I was doing that, though.
Despite the sun's early descent behind the craggy mountain peaks lighting up the sky in shades of scarlet and purples, the temperature hadn't cooled down even a little as I stepped out of the Cafe. Just stagnant heat that had my hair clinging to my neck. I felt sticky and gross after being on my feet all day, not to mention my legs were killing me.
My car's engine rumbled out an angry roar as I rolled up through the line to my bank's ATM. Beneath the rumbling, a high-pitched whistling noise had started up from a mystery part near the engine. I may not know a ton about cars, but from what I did know, squealing parts was never a good sign.
"Please, please, please, Fergus," I coaxed under my breath, with a comforting pat on the dashboard, "No more trips to the mechanic. We're almost home and then you can take a nap."
My ancient rusting car--if you could really call it that-- was a conglomerate of barely working gears and parts held together with duct tape and many desperate pleas to the universe. It had taken my saving every penny for a year to be able to afford this car. I paid for it in cash in a sketchy part of town from a man who laughed as I drove it off his car lot. It had shagging carpets, a giant mystery stain on the front passenger seat and smelled like the inside of a Taco Bell bag. It may not be much, but I loved it and had worked my ass off to get it.
Lauren had lovingly named it Fergus after the hundred-year-old man who had sat in her section at work one day. He had been scraggly and grumpy and complained about everything. The only hundred-year-old person she'd ever met. She said my screaming car was just like him; Ancient and crusty and just plain mad.
I fidgeted in the driver's seat as I waited, shifting my car's vents more in my direction. The "air conditioning" was really just my poor car's attempt to sputter any air through the vents and pointed them right into my face and neck. The hot air blew strands of hair falling out of my bun into my eyes. The car in front of me finally moved and I shifted my rickety car into gear, the seats vibrating as I moved my car forward toward the front of the line.
The squealing from the engine was becoming more insistent, harder to ignore, the longer my car idled. I turned in my tips to my account, in a rush, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel impatiently as I waited for the little white receipt to print.
Counting my tips—or the lack thereof— at the end of my double shift left a pit in my stomach. After graduation, I'd been able to work more hours and save more money than I normally could help me through my first semester of college. But with the bills piling up the way they were—not to mention my uncle's disinterest in helping me pay for anything—the money I'd been stowing away wouldn't make it as far as I'd been hoping it would.
My stomach dropped at the sight of the number on the screen. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Unless a miracle happened, there was no way I was going to be able to pay the electricity bill next week. Summer was an expensive time, and my bank account was a stark reflection of that. I tried not to think about that too much as I drove the short distance from my bank to my uncle's house.
The cul-de-sac was cleared up by the time my sputtering car collapsed into my driveway. With the lack of police cars and neighbors crowding around the street, it was almost too empty. George's body had been moved and everything else had been washed away already. The only indication of the uproar from this morning was the single yellow crime scene tape that had been fixed around George's house. Like it had all just been a bad nightmare.
Like nothing had happened at all.
The windows of George's house were dark. Too dark. The black windows were like a bruise on the otherwise lit street. It sent a wave of sadness coursing through me that ached when I lingered on it for too long. Usually, at this time of night, my neighbor would be staring out his kitchen window, waiting for my car to pull into my driveway watching to make sure I made it into my house safely as he made dinner for him and his cat.
His cat!
I'd completely forgotten about Mrs. Nisbitt. He'd adored that cat. Spoiled her to the point you would have thought she was his child. I'd even seen him carry her around his house in a baby carrier for a week straight after she needed some sort of surgery.
I chewed on my bottom lip, studying the darkness around his kitchen window for any signs of movement. Surely someone would have made sure to look for his cat, right? I stared at his house for a few lingering moments, not seeing any sign of her. Someone had probably taken her away. Maybe to the animal shelter.
I don't know why the idea of George's cat going to a stranger brought on another wave of sadness and before I could linger on it for too long, I shoved open the creaking door of my car to make my way up the driveway to my front door. The typical flecks of rust fluttered to my driveway as I slammed it shut behind me.
It wasn't until I paused outside my front door, fumbling with my keys, that I was struck with an intense feeling of wrongness. A prickling started on the back of my neck and goosebumps rose on my arms sending a shiver down my spine. It took me a moment to realize what it was.
It felt like I was being watched.
Fighting the urge to run back to my car like a terrified kid, I forced myself to turn around slowly, searching the street behind me. The road sat dark and empty, the windows in the nearby cars and houses vacant. I strained my ears against the normal sounds of nightfall—crickets chirping, the low hum of traffic a few rows back. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, the feeling didn't go away—my skin crawling with a lingering intense feeling of being scrutinized by unseen eyes.
A breeze blew through the street as I squinted through the dying sunlight, bringing with it the same smell from this morning. The smell of something sickly sweet...burnt sugar and rot. I shivered involuntarily, swiveling back around to shove the key into my front door with shaking fingers.
When the lock finally clicked open, I breathed an involuntary sigh of relief. Rushing through my doorway, I slammed it shut behind me, and leaned heavily against the door. Rubbing my palm against my forehead, I wiped my hand over my face, "Stop being so crazy," I laughed shakily, "Everything's fine."
Yeah, everything was so fine that I was talking to myself.
Even after living alone as I had for the past few years, I didn't usually make a habit of mumbling to myself like a crazy person. Still...no matter how many lies I told myself--in my head or out loud-- I couldn't persuade myself my neighborhood was safe anymore. I wasn't that convincing of a liar to begin with, and the sight of my neighbor's body lying in the street had shattered any illusions I may have had where safety is concerned.
I'd been living alone for long enough that being by myself hadn't phased me in a while, it had become my normal. Yet the idea of being in my house alone now had my heart hammering a disjointed rhythm in my chest, a clammy sweat breaking over my palms.
I was being paranoid. I knew that, but it didn't stop me from turning on all of the lights in my house as I worked my way slowly to the kitchen. I'd lived in the same house with David since I was twelve. It wasn't huge, the bottom story just an unused dining room with worn scratched furniture, a small boxy living room, and a handkerchief-sized kitchen. The narrow set of stairs in the corner lead up to the second floor where the bedrooms were.
I worked my way through the empty space, forcing myself to go through the motions of heating myself some dinner in the outdated microwave, listening a little too intently to every sound. Every unusual noise had my entire body tensing with stress. Had the house always been this creaky?
I was so wound up that I full-body flinched at the sound of a knock at my front door.