Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“You were taking a shower while the two of you were hanging?” she asks, glancing between us. “You know it’s fine to tell me the truth. We won’t judge. I have a wonderful wife of thirteen years. It’s not a big deal.”
“We were hanging out,” he insists. “I was watching a movie in his room while he showered. I heard a sound in the house and called. And it was taking forever for you guys to come, so I went to see if there was someone here. That’s why I was in the hall.”
Zane doesn’t struggle to come up with a plausible lie, that’s for sure. But why does he need to lie? If he saw a burglar from his place, couldn’t he have told the cops that?
No, there’s definitely more to this. And only my weird-ass neighbor knows what that is.
“Is that what happened?” Kendrick asks me, casually, not like she’s waiting for me to shout, “No, this guy had a fucking gun to my head, and I thought he might kill me.”
But he doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating now.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I say. “When Zane was looking around, I saw someone head out through the back door.”
The officers let me change into sweats and a tee, and I meet them downstairs with Zane. Kendrick inspects the front door, getting down on her knees with a flashlight as she takes a look at the lock. “Did you leave it unlocked?”
“I don’t think so, but I really can’t remember.”
Zane and I exchange an awkward look, and I try to read his expression, as though all the answers I need for what’s going on will be encoded somewhere on his face.
“I don’t see any signs of forced entry,” Kendrick says, pushing to her feet. When we head into the kitchen, the back door’s open too. Kendrick performs a similar inspection, aiming her flashlight at the lock before saying, “There are some markings here. Could’ve been picked by whoever broke in.”
“Should we change the lock?” I ask.
“Maybe get one with a different locking mechanism, since whoever came in has clearly figured out how to crack this one, but it seems like you scared them off. I wouldn’t be too worried about it.”
After the scare I’ve had, I think I’ll go for changing the lock.
Kendrick and Diaz take some more notes.
“We’ll check around the neighborhood for anyone suspicious,” Kendrick says as she leads Diaz to the front door, “but keep your alarm on, and you should be fine.”
Are they about to leave me with Zane?
As if sensing my fear, he pipes up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Leif.”
The goose bumps return.
Tomorrow? Am I really going to see him then?
I mean, he does owe me an explanation.
Or maybe he wants his gun back.
For now, he leaves with the cops, and I hurry around, locking the doors and turning on the security system before taking a deep breath.
You’re alive. You’re fucking alive.
But what the hell just happened?
2
ZANE
As I approach the door, I wonder what the hell I’m doing.
This is a mistake.
He could call the cops; he should call the cops. Hell, he should have told the cops I’d broken into his house and pulled him into a closet with a gun like a fucking monster.
Standing on his front porch, glancing around, I remind myself what a shit idea this is, but I need to talk to him.
And I need my gun back.
After I ring the doorbell, a few moments pass before I notice Leif through the sidelight windows.
This house has too many damn windows. Anyone can see right through. Watch him, the way I’ve watched him for the past couple of weeks. However, to the credit of this voyeur’s paradise, it works both ways, and he spots me through the window, the eyes on his sexy face widening before he hides behind the door.
I wait to hear his phone trilling as he calls the police. Or for him to tell me to leave him the fuck alone, but as I’m trying to imagine what I could possibly say to navigate this, I hear, “Can I help you?”
There’s a tremble in his voice, and I’m pleased to detect his innate, primal fear.
He should be afraid. That’s what’s going to keep him safe, alive.
I try to shake those kinds of thoughts away—they’re like shit Dad would have said.
“I think you know why I’m here.” Did that sound creepy? Fuck.
I wait for a response, but nothing for a few moments before he says, “You wanna tell me why you were over the other night?”
“I do, but not out here. Not like this.”
Silence.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me?”
“Did I hurt you when I had the chance?” That fucking sounds creepy too. Shit, I’m bad at this.
Nothing from the other side. Okay, maybe this isn’t happening, and I’m probably scaring the shit out of the poor guy, so I start toward the steps when I hear a click behind me. I turn to find him standing inside the cracked-open doorway, pepper spray in hand. In sweats, and he’s wearing one of his beanies…why does he have to wear beanies? I love a man in a beanie. And his tank top is tight around his chest, his lean, muscly arms on full display.