“Not happening,” declares Hana. “I’m doing this for your own good.”
It’s tempting to wait until he gives up and goes away, which is what I usually do. I don’t hate people. But the truth is most of them tend to have a negative opinion of me. The ones in this town, at least. Not to mention my dark blonde hair is overdue for a wash and tied back into a short ponytail. And my white tank top and old baggy blue jeans are clean apart from a small coffee stain from earlier.
A woman needs to be free to be ugly in her own home.
It takes me a minute to deal with the locks on the door, and my twenty-inch baseball bat waits out of sight against the wall. Just in case. Then there he is in black jeans, a faded band tee,and sneakers. He has tattoos on one arm and the side of his neck. And he’s both taller and broader up close. I’m average height and weight, and I barely reach his chin. His polite smile warms into something more at the sight of me. Women with oily hair must be his weakness.
“Hey,” he says in a deep voice.
Butterflies do not take flight in my belly. It’s just gas or something. “Hi.”
Hana giggles softly somewhere behind me.
“I, ah, found this in the mailbox. Looks like they delivered it to the wrong house.” He hands me a battered envelope. “I just moved in next door. Probably should have led with that.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
The thing about social niceties is that without practice they fade, and you can go a little feral. Same goes for being attracted to someone without being weird about it, apparently. Because I just stand there staring at the offered limb for a moment. And then for a few more. “Um. Sidney. I’m Sidney.”
“Noah.” His hand is huge, the fingers scarred and callused. But his grip is gentle. “Nice to meet you.”
I’m never washing this hand again.
His eyes are a deep blue beneath thick dark brows. He is without a doubt the prettiest man I’ve ever seen with those sharp cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw. And I have now been gaping up at him for an awkward amount of time.Shit.Which is when I notice the writing on the crumpled envelope in my hand. The way the pen dug deep into the paper. No doubt my ex’s thoughts will be gouged into the page in the same way. It’s been almost a year since he wrote to me. I wonder what made him think of me now. The ten-year anniversary of his arrest is coming up next month. He always did make a big deal out of birthdays and important dates.
And Noah is still standing there.
The thing is, there’s no room in my life for crushes. Not while I have this job to do. This awful history hanging over my head.
“Thanks for delivering this,” I say.
Noah nods. “Sure.”
Then I shut the door, slide the deadbolt, and hitch the chain.
Storm clouds gather in the night. The wind rushes past the house, tearing leaves from the trees and shaking their limbs. Vermont gets its fair share of weather. I love the drama and noise of it all. The sound of rain on the roof and watching it running down the windowpanes. Though I do miss lying out in the backyard staring at the stars. Some days it’s the only time I get outside. You could say I am indoorsy, and you would not be wrong.
My century-old two-story Craftsman cottage moans and groans. But it has good strong bones to weather the storm. I bought it eight years ago with the inheritance after my grandmother passed. The stress of everything that happened was too much for her heart. Yet another death care of my ex.
Staying in my apartment at that point was out of the question. It was too well known. People would pose for pictures on the front doorstep, wait for me to appear and yell questions and/or abusive comments. Then someone added it to an online map for a serial killer–themed road trip and made everything worse. Dark tourism is truly wild. A local tour still operates several times a week that will take you past my old place and to where Briana Petersen was buried. There’s money to be made on murder.
Lightning flashes and thunder rolls as the storm passes overhead. Most of the houses on the street sit in darkness since it’s the middle of the night. I love it when everyone is asleep, and I have the world to myself. My bedroom is upstairs at the back of the house. A refuge away from everything. I open theside window to watch it all play out and the scent of petrichor is heavy in the air. Though it’s hard to see much of what’s happening through the boughs of the big old trees.
The letter from Ryan still has me on edge. Science says he has a heart, but what proof do we have really? I might have been raised to be a kind and peaceful person. But it’s my dream to one day carve out that supposed heart of his. To put an end to the monster once and for all. A girl can dream.
In the meantime, there are his subtle digs in the letter at how weak and codependent he thinks I am. The painfully polite inquiries about my life. References to the late-night walks I take, the store where I go grocery shopping, and the short length of my hair. He said just enough to let me know he has someone watching me.
Hybristophilia is a sexual interest in or attraction to people who commit crimes. My ex has plenty of fans who write to him and visit. Any one of them would probably be more than happy to keep an eye on me. Taking the letter to the local police isn’t an option, though. Some of them still think I was an accessory. I haven’t noticed anyone lurking or loitering, but I need to be more careful. More aware of my surroundings.
For now, the security alarm is turned on and everything is fine. That asshole does not get to control me. I refuse to give in to my fear.
Most of the blocks on the street are long and narrow, meaning the buildings are close together. But this house is in its own little world surrounded by maple, pine, birch, and ash. Someone wanted their privacy and planted a whole lot of trees a long time ago. Which is why it’s a shame when lightning strikes scarily close and a shockingly loud crack sounds as a huge branch breaks away from the red maple standing directly outside my bedroom. The noise shakes my bones as the limb crashes to the ground.
“Holy shit.”
“You can say that again.” And staring back at me from the house next door is my new neighbor. We’re both standing before open windows in the upstairs levels of our own homes. This is wild. There can’t be more than eight feet between us. The tree that got hit is in my yard. He leans out to check the damage and huh. There’s a whole lot of skin on display. Biceps and pecs and all that. My heart is not stuck in my throat. It just feels like it is for some reason.
“Are you okay, Sid?” he asks over the noise of the rain.
