When Daisy showed Mark and me the house we live in now, she declared, “This is not a starter house. This is a forever house.”
If this were happening to Sharon, she would pack us up in the middle of the night and we’d be in a new part of town by morning. But I’m not Sharon, and I don’t want to run. I want to face whoever is doing this.
In the dining room, I turn on the two slender lamps that grace the credenza when a noise from outside crashes my thoughts. I stop to listen. Just as I am about to write it off as typical suburban nighttime noise, I hear something again. Like the dragging of metal across concrete. It sounds close enough that, if I could reach through the dining room wall to the outside, I might touch whatever was causing it.
In the mudroom, I open the back door and look outside but see nothing, only an empty bird feeder swaying in the night wind. The wind swishes in the trees, but there is no sound of metal against concrete.
“Hello?” I call into the darkness.
I take a tentative step down the walkway that runs alongside the house toward the street. My skin prickles. There’s someone here, even if I can’t see him.
I remember what the detective said. If they call first, they aren’t coming. But that does nothing to alleviate the drumming of my heart.
A flash of movement across my sight line makes me jump. A shriek escapes my throat.
Then my vision focuses on a figure by the curb.
It’s a raccoon, rounded on its haunches, gazing at me with two mirror discs for eyes. We stare at each other for a second, and then the creature trots off into the darkness.
My heart thwacks in my rib cage. I begin to collect the garbage strewn on the walkway. That was the clang I heard, the animal knocking the metal garbage can lid to the ground.
He’s done a good bit of damage. Following the contents of the ripped garbage bag takes me halfway to the street.
I’m picking up the last piece of debris, an old take-out container, when I see him.
Dustin is standing across the street, something in his hand.
“Hey,” he whispers loudly and begins to cross.
I freeze, unsure of what to do. Before I can decide, he is right in front of me, raising his arm, his hand gripping something. A weapon?
“It’s a universal remote,” he says. “Like the one Steve Wozniak invented?”
I laugh nervously and take it from him. “Thank you, Dustin.”
“Did you ever figure out who was behind all that online stuff?”
Something at the end of the street catches my eye—a familiar car on the corner.
The black Audi with FCS plates.
“I have to go.” I turn and run back inside and lock the door. Rushing from room to room, I shut off all the lights. Once I am sure I cannot be seen, I peer out the front bay window. The Audi lurks there in the dark, but I cannot see if anyone is inside.
I have to do something. I call Mark.
“When are you coming home?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Soon. I just have about another hour of work to do. What’s going on? Cole all right?”
No! I want to shout. The police think I killed Rob Avery. Someone hacked my computer, and I lost my job. There’s a black Audi following me. Instead I say, “Cole’s fine.” I step away from the window, wondering how much I should share.
“What’s going on, Allie?” Just hearing the warmth in his voice relaxes me a little. I remember how in Chicago he used to walk beside me so his body blocked the wind.
“There’s a car on our block that doesn’t belong there.”
“It’s probably someone visiting Leah or Heather.”
“No. I’ve seen this car before, Mark. I think it’s been following me.” I hate how I sound. Overdramatic, like a shut-in who can no longer discern reality from fantasy. But I know what I know.
“Following you? Is it possible maybe you’re just spooked? Letting your imagination run wild?”
“No, I don’t think so. I recognize the plates.”
“Allie, don’t get mad, but have you been drinking?”
I open my mouth in disbelief. His question deflates me like air being let out of a tire. “Forget it. Forget I even called.”
“No, I’m glad you called.” He sounds genuine, but I can’t tell if he’s condescending to me, or if he takes me seriously. “Describe the car to me.”
“It’s a black Audi.”
“Can you see who’s driving it?” he asks with the patient tone he uses when planning birthday parties with Cole for our son’s imaginary friends.
“I don’t know, Mark.” I sound snippy. My nerves are jangly and raw. Instead of soothing me, this conversation has left me feeling more isolated.
“Tell you what: lock the doors and go to bed, and I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’m sure it’s just someone visiting a neighbor.”
When I peer out the window again, the street is empty. “It’s gone.”
“See?” he says. “Nothing to worry about. Now go to bed. I’ll be home soon.”
After hanging up with Mark, I break my own promise and down a fourth glass of wine. I need to pass out, not just fall asleep.
I am jolted awake and sit up, disoriented. The clock reads just after midnight. Alcohol does this to me—it sends me off to sleep but can’t keep me there. Like a boat that’s been launched, I lose speed halfway across my journey and end up drifting across the dark ocean.
I’ve been asleep about two hours. My head feels heavy on my neck. I look beside me and see Mark is not there.
I sit in my bed for a few moments, gauging whether I will be able to fall back asleep. But the day’s events come rushing at me.
Maybe a cup of tea will help. I throw back the covers and step into the hallway. From the
