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Nick had left a bunch of potential stories in our shared online file, and while he was away I may as well start drawing. But first I switched on one of the side monitors to show the feed from one of my front-of-house cameras. This was the one I’d originally set up so I could keep an eye on the house across the street, just in case Mrs. Welland fell down her front steps or her mail started ominously piling up. After Mrs. Welland died, there was no need to monitor that feed anymore—until now.
I started drawing, and half an hour later the blonde came out of the house again. She opened the Civic’s hatchback, leaned all the way in—her ass was perfect in those jeans—and came out with two duffel bags, then some boxes, and finally a couple of black garbage bags. So she was moving in, then, at least for a while. But she didn’t have much stuff—no furniture, no moving van. Just her little car.
Who moved all the way from California with only a few bags and boxes?
Who was she?
None of your business.
I turned off the camera feed and went back to work.
* * *
I lasted until midnight.Lying in bed, in the dark and the quiet, my work done and my meds taken, I finally gave in.
I sat up and pulled out my laptop, woke it up. Most people would have difficulty finding out who their new neighbor was. Not me. I logged into a few different sites I knew, typed in a few lines of code, ran some queries.
You could just introduce yourself and ask her name, like a normal person.
I snorted to myself. It wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t do small talk. I didn’t do polite introductions, especially to gorgeous women. Hell, I didn’t even do anything that required me to wheel out the front door, even though the doorway and the front ramp were modified so that I could. This was what I did: learn things I wasn’t supposed to know, late at night so I could avoid lying alone in the dark.
I hated the dark.
That wasn’t a fact I shared with anyone. Not even my therapist. But I had my worst anxiety attacks in the dark, my deepest depressions. The dark was when the things I fought every day came out and won.
So instead of thinking about the dark, I looked up my neighbor.
It was easy because of the Civic, of course. There were a dozen ways I could have found her, but a basic hack into the DMV database with the make, model, and license plate gave me everything I wanted to know.
Her name was Tessa Hartigan. She was twenty-seven. Her permanent address was in California, so either she was visiting or she hadn’t changed her address yet. Judging by her luggage, it could be either one.
I could have stopped there, but I didn’t. I opened another browser and did a Google search. She had no Facebook account, no social media at all except Instagram. The avatar was her face, and the description saidModel. Sagittarius. Chocolate chip cookie lover. Contact me for bookings!
A model? I clicked into her feed.
And froze.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
There was my neighbor, posed with her hands on her hips, a pleasant smile on her face. She had sheer pink lipstick on and darkly made-up eyes. Her blonde bob was tucked behind her ears. She was wearing black lace panties, a black lace bra, and nothing else.
The caption said,Check out the sexy winter line from LoveIt Lingerie in LA! Link in my bio!
The next photo was from the same shoot, except the bra and panties were hot pink. Tessa Hartigan had only one hand on her hip and she was laughing. The caption said,Outtake from yesterday’s shoot. We had so much fun!
There were more. Lots more. The shots weren’t erotic—they were catalog shots, meant to sell a product.
My new neighbor was a lingerie model.
“Great,” I said out loud to no one, my voice a croak. “That’s just fucking great.”
Instead of the elderly Mrs. Welland, I now had a hot-as-fuck woman living across the street. One who took most of her clothes off for a living. One who I could look at in lingerie anytime I wanted to.
And all I could feel was panic. My blood pounded in my head, inside my ears. My throat was dry.She’s none of your business,the voice in my head said.She’ll never come near you. Never talk to you. You’ll never have a fucking thing to do with her, and you know it.
I clicked the browser with Instagram closed. Then I clicked into the database sites and logged out, closed them too.
My hands were icy. I closed my laptop, put it on the bedside table. “None of my fucking business,” I said aloud, to no one. Because I was alone.
