I see no one until, several streets away from my own, my eye is drawn to someone leaving his house. It’s the first person I’ve seen since leaving the house, not so strange given it is work hours. The school drop-offs are long over, and the crowded commutes home are still hours away.
I check the street name. They all look so similar around here; the Victorians built uniform villa squares when the empire was at its height and every man was king of his castle.
Then I watch as the man, farther along, secures his front door, top and bottom locks, and proceeds to deposit a heavy-looking black bag into a bin before heading out of his low gate.
I realize that I know him.
Chapter 10
The Two-House Issue
“Matt?” I call down thestreet, a little too familiarly, given our quite brief initial meeting. I need to be careful, in case I give myself away; I feel like I know him because I spent a whole day Googling him.
I know what teams he was on, his battered old holiday reads—Love, Etc.by Julian Barnes andStarter for Tenby David Nicholls, thankfully not a tattered Philip Roth or Bukowski in sight—and his preference for skiing over snowboarding.
He looks up suddenly, as if caught, and completely baffled as to who I am. I watch his eyes flick over my face before it finally clicks. Surely, I’m not that forgettable.
A smile breaks.
“Sorry—you threw me,” he hollers, heading in my direction, hands casually slipping into pockets, his easygoing vibe settling back in. “Fancy seeing you here.”
He seems pleased to see me now. The realization makes me buzz.
I smile, pause, and wait for him to get closer. It is only then I remember that this isn’t our street. He just came out of a house that isn’t his and double locked it.
I feel my expression stutter as we reach each other.
“Day off?” he asks me, his handsome eyes narrowing conspiratorially.
I’m back-footed by the question. Every day now is a day off. But obviously I’m not going to tell him that: that I am terrifyingly unemployed, wandering the streets on a Wednesday morning looking for a café in which to surreptitiously watch cat camera videos. That I’mconcerned something weird is up with my incredibly expensive new house, or this whole neighborhood.
“Taking a half day, working from home,” I answer, giving him a flash of my laptop in my bag.
“Nice, got to love WFH,” he says with a smile.
“And you?” I ask.
“Got a video meeting soon, so I’m off back home now; otherwise I’d be up for that coffee.”
He’s on about the coffee again. And for the first time I get the feeling this is all about something else, not quite what it seems. The same feeling that I got with Arabella: that the person befriending me is just a little too eager, a hair’s breadth over what one might expect.
“Oh, great,” I answer.
“How’s it going with the new place?” he asks.
Terrible,my head screams.It’s haunted. Someone’s living in my walls.
“Yeah! Amazing. Love it. I’m almost unpacked, but there’s always those final few boxes, right?”
“God, yeah. I don’t envy you that.” He pauses a moment before asking: “You spoken to anyone else on the street yet?” I detect a note of mild concern.
“Not yet, no, but I took in a package for Mary Lamb?” The way I say the name indicates I’m not sure if that’s a real person.
His eyebrows shoot up at the mention of the name. “Oh, yeah. Aoife. Yeah, I took a few packages for her early days. Met her a few times when she first moved in but she’s always jetting around, so…” That note of mild concern is there again.
“Yeah, no one’s come to collect the package yet, so I haven’t actually spoken to her,” I begin, but he cuts me off with a little groan.
“Yeah, a word to the wise: don’t get in the habit of taking her parcels. I had one of hers in my hall for over two months. She’s on the group, though. Drop her a message if she doesn’t show up. Peer pressure always seems to work around here.”
